Light Room
by kkolmakov
Summary: Remember the story titled "Dark Room?" Here's a flip version of it. So you can expect amnesia; hardly any Tolkien canon; plenty of humour and fluff; and all the classics of kkolmakov writing. If you want 'proper FF,' this is not the story you're looking for ;) Summary: Thorin gets hit to the head, but the goose egg is the least of his problems. The lost 18 years will be :D
1. Open Your Eyes

**I'm slowly recovering flexibility in my fingers; and this is where my mind went :D I think I just wanted to write something easy and fluffy - to balance out all the serious editing and writing I'm doing for my Kindle books.**

 **I hope you have a laugh or two :)**

 **That is, I hope there are still people who read Hobbit fanfiction ha ha :D**

 **Love you all!**

 **Cheers XX**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

Thorin opened his eyes. The room around him was unfamiliar - dark and warm. He was on a bed, and there was a heavy canopy above him, velvet, green. The next thing he noticed was that the sheets he lay on were silky and bore some sweet smell, of some flowers of sorts. He shortly wondered whether he was in an infirmary - otherwise, why would he be lazing? - but the room surely looked like a bedchamber in a prosperous dwelling. He also didn't feel ill, or wounded - except for a throbbing pain on the right side of his head, but it was dull, and more of a nuisance. He sat up and looked around.

"He is awake, my lord!" A sudden loud voice made him whip his head to his right.

A Dwarven maiden stood in front of him, the face beaming with a relieved smile. A second later Balin was near him, leaning to his face, with the same relief spilling onto his features.

"Welcome back, laddie!" Balin turned to the maiden. "Quickly, call the healers."

The girl, as Thorin now noticed, was dressed in some odd attire: a long dress of sorts, fern green, and an apron. She nodded and rushed out of the room.

"How are you faring, laddie?" Balin asked.

Thorin lifted his hand to rub his head, and his fingers bumped into bandages.

"The head hurts. What happened?" Thorin asked. "And where am I?"

"We thought we'd put you in your bedchamber instead of the infirmary. The healers said you just needed to be observed until you woke up. The bleeding stopped quickly. And your slumber was of the healthy nature, not the lethargy."

"What happened?" Thorin repeated his question, feeling his temper rising.

He then cringed. There was ache in the right shoulder as well.

"You were in the Lower Passages, in the renovations area, and a box of tools slid off the scaffolding. One of the hammers struck your head," the white-haired Dwarf explained. Thorin suddenly noticed the unfamiliar beads in Balin's much longer beard. "Another hit your shoulder." Balin softly patted Thorin's healthy upper arm. "Do not worry, laddie. The Queen has been sent for. It is the third day of the month, of course. So it'll be a few hours."

None of what Balin said made sense.

"What are you about?" Thorin sat up higher with a groan. "What… Queen?"

Before he received an answer, the door opened; and two Khazad came in. One was older, white haired and stern looking. He had a large bag in his hand. The second was younger, and was respectfully walking half a step behind the old Dwarf. The Dwarven maiden Thorin had seen before followed them and closed the door.

The healer - at least Thorin assumed the older Dwarf was one - gave Thorin a low bow.

"My lord, I am overjoyed to see you awake." He approached the bed and opened the bag on the edge. "How are you faring?"

The younger one meanwhile left through a side door to the next room.

"I am… What is happening here? Where am I?" Thorin decided to demand some answers at least. He turned to Balin. "Balin?"

"Do you not remember, my lord?" the healer asked carefully; and then his apprentice showed up carrying a basin of water.

"Do I not remember what?" Thorin's patience was running thin.

"Your water, master," the younger Dwarf said; and the healer started rolling up his sleeves, clearly planning to start washing his hands.

"Laddie, what do you remember?" Balin asked slowly, in a cautious tone; and Thorin saw red.

"I remember that I so far haven't received a single answer to my question. Where. Am. I?!"

"You are in your bedchambers, in Erebor, my lord," the healer answered, his voice just as calm as before.

The man had the nerve to continue washing his hands! And then the meaning of his words reached Thorin's understanding!

"In… Erebor?" His voice broke, and he sharply turned his head to look around. His ears rang. "What… what year is it?"

"It is year 2955 of the Sun," the healer answered; and stepped to Thorin. "I need to examine you, my lord, if you don't mind."

"I do mind, damn it!" Thorin barked, and pushed the man slightly aside to look at Balin. "What does he mean by 2955? Last I remember it was 2937, and we were in the Blue Mountains! And your beard was three inches shorter!"

Balin unconsciously ran his hand down his white forked beard. Thorin's hand of course flew up to his. It was longer too, and ended in a large opal bead. He looked down at himself. There was a white tunic on him, embroidered around the collar and down the placket, three top buttons opened.

And then some noise came from outside the door, and everyone in the room turned their heads to look. The door flew open, and a small figure dashed in. Thorin only managed to notice that the person was short and gaunt - and then the woman ran through the room, plopped on the bed near him, and leaned close to his face. The little claw like fingers sank into his shoulders. Thorin winced away from the pair of two giant green eyes.

"Thorin!' the lass hollered. "What happened?" She then whipped her head and looked at Balin. "Balin?! I was on my way to Dale, we got delayed in Esgaroth. And the messenger caught up with us." She then looked at Thorin again. He tried to free the wounded shoulder out of her grip. "Are you in pain, my heart?" she asked.

In Khuzdul! The girl - Thorin was never good at guessing the age of the Long Ones - spoke the language! How was this possible?!

"I'm afraid the King's injuries are the least of our problems," muttered the old healer, and Thorin glared at him.

"What? What is the matter?"

The lass blanched, and her eyes searched Thorin's face. He shifted away from her on the bed.

"I am afraid, though physically the King is hardly affected, the blow to the head might have..."

Thorin decided the man needed to cease his irksome monotonous lecturing.

"Who is this woman?! Why is she allowed here?" Thorin barked, and the girl winced away. "Balin!" Thorin had no other choice but to turn to his old comrade.

"Oh, it is worse than we thought," the healer muttered.

The girl turned to Balin as well, as if seeking explanation. The old Dwarf sighed.

"My King Thorin thinks that it is year 2937 presently, and that he is the King-in-Exile, the King of the Longbeards of the Blue Mountains."

The words hung in the silent room heavily.

"Mahal help me," the woman - Thorin had noticed a few strands of silver in her hair - gasped.

Thorin looked her over more attentively. She was so small and bony that at the first glance she seemed a youngling. He could see now she was approaching the second half of her life, whatever lifespan the Long Ones had. The eyes were like a cat's, and everything was angular. Thorin had never paid much attention to the Men's women, but this one would surely look odd and unappealing even to them. Or not. Again Thorin knew - and cared - very little when it came to the Long Ones.

"He doesn't remember anything..." she whispered.

Thorin's temper rose. _He_ was right here. _He_ was not used to be talked _about_ in front of him!

"What is there to remember?" he growled, but then corrected himself. "Besides us having reclaimed Erebor."

"Aye, Erebor has been reclaimed," Balin spoke in a calming voice. "You have won it over in year 2941. The wyrm was slain by the Men of Esgaroth, and our Orc enemy was defeated with the help of our Elven friends from Mirkwood."

Thorin felt his jaw slack. Surely, this was an illusion of sorts! He could accept that the dragon was dead, and that the Mountain was theirs again - but having sided with the pointy eared bastards?! Impossible!

And then, as if it weren't shocking enough, Balin had placed his final blow.

"And this is your wife, Lady Wren of Erebor," the old Dwarf said and respectfully pointed at the woman.

Thorin made a choked throat in his throat.

A woman of Men? The small, spare creature, with the hair of carrot colour?! She looked like a frog, with that wide mouth of hers, and long skinny limbs!

The pause stretched, and then the clear calm voice of the woman made all of them once again turn as if by a command.

"Something tells me, my dear Balin," she said, and Thorin saw her jerk her chin up, "that the King is wondering whether it was you, and not him, who had received a blow to the head. Clearly, to him your words sound like rambling of a madman - and judging by the firm set of the regal jaw, the ramblings of the offensive and insulting sort."


	2. First Things First

Thorin was examined and deemed 'slightly bruised, but otherwise unscathed.' Then the healer washed his cursed hands again, while Thorin sat on the bed his arms crossed under the unblinking stare of the woman and the concerned gaze of Balin. And finally the healer, his apprentice, and the girl in the apron were gone.

The redhead stepped to the window, and Balin followed her like a pup. Thorin pressed his lips in annoyance. While the two other people in the room were whispering conspiratorially, Thorin used the opportunity to look around. The chamber was large, well lit through a wide, colourful stained glass window. If indeed they were in Erebor, then these were the Upper Halls. Traditionally, the Royal Halls were underground, deep in the Mountain. He wondered if these rooms had been chosen for the sake of the woman. He momentarily set the considerations of his unfitting spouse aside; and studied the surroundings. The furniture and the tapestries on the wall were very much to his taste: luxurious and lavish. What seemed inappropriate to him was the astonishing amount of what he assumed were the woman's belongings. Some items of her wardrobe - something unknown, gauzy and pink - were scattered on a bench by the wall, near a vanity. Some sort of jars and bottles were on the table in front of the mirror, mixed with brushes, pieces of cloth or ribbons. Could it be that she resided in the same bedroom? He had been told this bedchamber was his! That would be most unconventional. Just as any Dwarf Thorin knew men and their wives were to have their own, separate halls. He couldn't imagine a reason why she'd live here. Had she insisted because such was the tradition of Men?

This was of course a marriage of convenience. He threw her a quick discreet glance. She didn't look like the men of Dale or Esgaroth that he remembered - the tall, dark haired ones from the times of Girion. The accent in her speech - some sort of abnormal lull, some sounds stretched, as if sung - was not of these cities of Men. She was no Elf either, thank Mahal - although he doubted that whatever grotesque political circumstances had landed him in the marriage with this… frog, he still wouldn't have agreed on marrying an Elf, all treaties and alliances be damned.

The woman finally finished schooling Balin and stepped to Thorin's bed. Her face was dark.

"Thorin, let us speak," she started in Khuzdul.

He cringed. As many surprises as the last half an hour had brought, a woman of Men sullying the secret language of his people with her lips was the most distasteful.

"What would you like to know?" she asked, and sat on the edge of his bed again.

Waiting for his answer, she started jerkily taking off her cloak. He had been right - she was nothing but skin and bones. And her dress! It was appalling! No jewellery, no brocade! If he understood right and she had been travelling to Dale and Esgaroth - Thorin reckoned they had been restored - was this how his Queen was seen outside their private halls?! That was a disgrace!

"Where are you from… my lady?" Thorin stumbled, realising he didn't know the woman's name.

She stopped pulling her arm out of the surcoat's sleeve and gawked at him.

"Where am I from?" she asked, and some odd tick ran her face. Her sharp turn-up nose twitched, and the eyebrows jumped up. "Thorin, why does this matter?" She frowned. "Would it not make sense to ask about your people? Or how long we have been married? Or of our children?"

Thorin gaped at her and opened his mouth to ask about the _children_ , when she exclaimed, "Oh I should have known. You are trying to understand why you married me."

Thorin shifted on the bed uncomfortably. The woman was observant and perceptive it seemed. That was disconcerting.

She sighed.

"My name is Wren, I was born in Enedwaith. Before marrying you I had served as a healer in Dale. You gained no political or financial merit by marrying me. And we have four children." She turned away and finally pulled off the coat. "The oldest is a boy, so you have an heir. There is a daughter as well, so Mahal was generous to you."

Thorin couldn't see her face, but it mattered not. His mind whirred. He had a son! Three sons! And a daughter!

The mosaic of his current life was quickly taking shape - although the woman hardly fit into it, which he decided to ponder later. Erebor was theirs; his halls were prosperous; he had an heir and even more children!

A question came. What children could this woman birth? Were they Dwarven enough? He glanced at her but refrained from the question - as well as from lingering his gaze on her face. He was starting to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Until he knew more, he couldn't let her read his mind in his eyes - it was becoming increasingly alarming how much she could.

"Is there peace?" he asked, addressing Balin.

The cursed Dwarf looked at the redhead uncertainly. Thorin venomously thought that apparently the old man did nothing without the frog's approval these days. What sort of devilry did the woman possess?

"There's peace, and trade is blooming. All is well, laddie."

"Except our King doesn't remember his kin."

Thorin whipped his head and glared at the woman. Had he just heard her muttering right?!

Some sort of angry green light burnt in her odd slanted eyes; but then she sighed and the line of her lips softened.

"Forgive me, that was cruel," she said, and shook her head. "I have forgotten how hard it used to be."

If she thought her words could be considered an apology, she was mistaken. Whenever she spoke, her manner was just disrespectful and insubordinate. Whatever could have happened in the eighteen years for him to allow his wife to speak to him like that?

"What 'it?'" Thorin asked menacingly.

"Your… astringency."

"My what?" Thorin barked.

She opened her mouth, but then seemingly stopped herself.

"We should not tire you more. And again, I beg forgiveness. I am being disagreeable. I have had a… shock, and forget myself." She gave him a strange long look and got off the bed. "I will go… speak with the healers. And you should rest."

She looked at Balin who immediately minced to the bed. 'A pup,' Thorin once again thought irkedly.

"Once you have some rest, please send for me," she said to Thorin.

A small grimace twisted her lips; but then she turned around and left the room. Thorin discreetly exhaled. The aggravating lass was finally gone, and he could start his investigation.

A short, thankfully business-like conversation with Balin revealed that Thorin had nothing to be ashamed of in his life. Nothing was amiss. He was the King of the Longbeards. His Kingdom and his rule were strong. The hoard of Erebor was safe and grew daily. Forges worked incessantly; mines burst with activity.

Balin gave him the concise account of their Quest, of the Dragon's demise, and the Battle of the Five Armies. Thorin made a mental note to find out more about the Quest.

While listening to the old Dwarf Thorin was also devising a plan for the nearest future. Obviously, no one besides those already involved should find out about his predicament. A ruler of the Khazad could not show weakness. He momentarily chasticised himself for dismissing the woman before making sure she knew she was to speak to no one about it.

Obviously, he didn't doubt he'd be able to perform his duties even without his memory. The rumours had to be contained, but he felt no fear. He just needed to make sure he relied on the right people.

The door in his room opened - without a knock! And the redhead came in with a tray in her hands. She wore a different dress - and it was of an even duller cut and colour!

"I've brought you lunch," she muttered, and placed the tray on the table near the bed.

So apparently Thorin's wife wasn't above doing a maid's work as well. What was happening in this household?!

"I have spoken to Brori, he will come shortly," the redhead said without looking up from the tray and clanking with some dishes.

"Who is Brori?" Thorin grumbled at Balin.

"Your secretary," the woman answered. "He can be trusted."

"You should have asked me first!" He had no choice but to address her now! "Who else knows now? Are you intending to announce my memory loss to the whole Mountain?"

She lifted her face and narrowed her eyes at him, like an angry cat.

"Brori can be trusted," she repeated tensely. "The healer will speak of nothing as well. Secrecy is scared for a healer. Balin and myself are the only two people left, and I doubt either of us will blather."

"What did the healer say?" Balin asked.

"He said we just have to wait," she answered. "The blow was very weak, and they do not anticipate a lasting damage to the memory. Anything can trigger its return."

"Do you mind turning to me when speaking of _my_ health?" Thorin snarled at the woman. He was not going to be ignored! In his own bedroom!

She halted and then slowly turned her head to him.

"I will take my leave," Balin said at the background, but neither Thorin, nor the woman acknowledged it.

Only when the door softly closed behind Balin, she broke the lock between their gazes and dropped her eyes.

"I apologise again."

That was more like it. He much preferred this quiet obedient tone of hers - to her barging into his room and discussing him as if he wasn't there!

"What did the healer say I should do?" he asked.

She came up to the bed and placed the tray on his lap. He suppressed another wave of indignation at her unseeming behaviour. She was the Queen, for Mahal's sake!

"He said to follow your daily routine. Go about your day as if nothing happened. Familiar experiences and sensations could bring your memory back at any time."

She stepped back and sat down on a chair near the bed.

Thorin picked up a spoon and started on the bowl of mushroom soup she'd placed before him. He suddenly felt so hungry that his jaw hurt. He ate a few spoonfuls, and then saw a few slices of buttered bread on a smaller plate. The bread was fresh and fragrant, and cut just the way he always liked. He looked up and saw her wipe butter from her fingers with a napkin. Odd choice or not, at least she was an attentive wife.

"We will have to let the children know of your injury," she said quietly. "You can't deceive them, and you are too… different right now."

Thorin froze with a spoon mid-air.

"I am what?!"

"Different."

"You don't know that!" Thorin threw the spoon down into the bowl. "You have spent just a few minutes with me. Surely, I am still the same man as eighteen years ago. I might not know some facts my children..."

"Some facts?" she interrupted, and some sort of a hysterical giggle burst out of her. " _Our_ children are used to a loving father who is considerate… content… fun! Not a warg in a tunic!"

Thorin's eyes boggled.

"A warg… in a tunic?!" he hissed and leaned ahead - to tell her that firstly, she needed to know her place; and secondly, that she was mad if she thought he'd believe he could be 'fun.'

The bowl of soup toppled on the tray pouring the scorching goo on his lap.

" _M'imnu Durin!_ " he hollered, and the woman jumped ahead and pressed a napkin into…

* * *

 _To be continued…_ :)


	3. Business to Attend

**Author's Note:**

 **As requested, I'm trying to find a bit of time to write almost every day (just as in the good old times :D) and to update often. Hope you enjoy!**

 **And thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! It's endlessly encouraging. I'm feeling more inspired than I've been in months.**

 **Love you all!**

 **Cheers xx**

 **Katya**

* * *

"Mahal help me," Thorin barked, and tried to batter away the woman's hand, away from _that_ part of his anatomy.

It had no effect. She kept dabbing the napkin, quite forcefully. To his own shock, the combination of the warm soup and the friction felt… oddly stimulating.

"Would you… Could you…" he rasped out, staring at the top of her orange head.

She lifted her eyes at him.

"Would you like me to fetch you some ice?" she asked; and he momentarily wondered if she was being sardonic, implying that he needed to 'cool down' since he seems to be getting 'excited.'

Her face seemed to express a sincere concern, though. Perhaps she simply meant applying ice on his possible burns from the soup. _Hopefully_ , that was what she meant.

"No need," he grumbled and once again intercepted her hand with a napkin. "I will just wash it off."

He pushed by her and got off the bed - and froze.

"The bathchamber is that way," she said behind him.

He stomped away without throwing her a glance. It might have been not entirely courteous, but he thought he should be given credit for not growling to her that he hardly needed instructions since there were only two doors in the room. He wasn't a cretin; obviously the door where everyone kept popping out from led to the passages, and the smaller one in the back of the room was the bathchamber.

He jerked the door open and once again came to an abrupt stop.

The room was spacious; and in the middle of it was the largest tub Thorin had ever seen in his life. It was not a tub. It was a lake, for Mahal's sake! Or at least a small pond. What were they washing in it? An oliphant?!

There was also a large mirror on the wall. Did the oliphant have a habit of watching itself while being washed? Along the wall there was a long narrow shelf, more bottles and jars and other feminine nonsense cluttering it; and there was a wardrobe, a basin, and a few assorted pieces of furniture, all dainty and bow-legged. The memories of his room in the Blue Mountains, in all its spartan emptiness, popped up in his mind. So, over the last eighteen years he had acquired a contentious frog for a wife and a taste for… was that a fire box with large rocks piled on top?! To make steam? What had become of him? Had he turned into a Haradrim chieftain who enjoyed aromatic steams and being fed grapes by unclad concubines?!

Thorin marched to the wardrobe. Inside he found neatly folded tunics and breeches for himself, and of course plenty of _her_ garments, again all flimsy and pink, or some other 'womanish colours.' He shook off the soup covered clothes, and grabbed the closest items from the shelves. He then quickly washed off in the basin, and pulled on the fresh pair of trousers and the shirt.

And then he caught the view of himself in the mirror.

The eighteen years hadn't changed him much. The hair was longer - he couldn't help but to notice how well tended to it looked. There was perhaps more silver in it, but he hadn't had a habit of looking at himself much previously. He touched the bandages. The head was still sore, and was the shoulder, and then he saw a bruise on the other side of his neck. He twisted his head and studied the spot. It was round; and he wondered what could possibly have produced such a mark. It almost looked like a… bite mark? Had he been attacked by an animal? And one with dull teeth for that matter. What a nonsense.

Having lost the interest in his appearance quickly - he had much more important matters to attend - Thorin took a deep breath and walked out of the bathchamber.

The woman was sitting on the bed, on the same spot.

"How soon did the healer say I will get my memories back?" he asked, and stopped in front of her.

She gave him a long look.

"It can happen at any moment. You will have to be… patient."

Her tone was unpleasantly sarcastic. Clearly, she thought that would be beyond his abilities. What a quarrelsome creature.

"I would like to get dressed now," he said pointedly.

There was a pause, and she watched him. He was starting to lose patience - was the cursed woman intending to give him his privacy?

"Dressed?" she drew out and cocked her head. It was a strange gesture, very bird-like. She also had an unpleasantly long neck; and the triangular face with the pointy nose indeed made her look like some sort of a fowl. "And where are you intending to go once you're indeed dressed?"

Her antagonistic attitude needed to be nipped at the bud, he thought. Apparently he had been a fool and allowed her the illusion that she could speak in such manner to her husband - but thankfully, he had no scruples presently. She was to be put in her place.

"Please, leave," he said haughtily. "I will send for you when I require your presence." He decided to be generous and added, "You have had a perhaps valid idea. I could use a tad of help from my secretary. Send him to me. Meanwhile, I'm sure you have matters to attend."

He didn't have a faintest idea what matters she could be attending. He doubted she was a smith or an engineer - like a proper Dwarven wife - but surely _his_ wife wouldn't be idly sitting around in her drawing room all day, making paintings out of… dried flowers, or some other poppycock.

"You know, my heart, I'm almost tempted to let you get around Erebor on your own," she said calmly; and his jaw dropped. "Considering your sense of direction. Aren't you the Dwarf who had gotten lost in Hobbiton?" One of her eyebrows jumped up. "Twice."

Confusion and anger mixed in his blood, and he glared at her. Also, at the back of his mind he asked himself what he could have been doing in Hobbiton; but then he remembered Balin's account of the Quest.

"Send the secretary to me," he gritted through his teeth. "And take your leave."

"Very well," she said and rose.

He felt irritation rise at the view of her feeble body.

"I will see you later," she said. "Remember what the healer said. You need to stick with your routine. A large family dinner might be too risky; surely, everyone will notice that the King isn't quite himself. So we will have the small dinner here, in our parlour. We often do."

Thorin narrowed his eyes. He told himself he needed to make sure she wasn't tricking him. It was hard to imagine what purpose a deceit from her could serve; but on the other hand, he wouldn't be able to confirm or dispute anything she told him of their marital life, would he?

"So be it," he answered slowly.

"And perhaps the children should be visited after the dinner, before their bedtime," she suggested.

Thorin tensed, but nodded nonetheless. He needed information. Only when knowing more, he could make decisions on how to proceed.

She studied him for a few seconds, nodded, and headed out of the room. He once again inhaled in relief when the door closed behind her.

* * *

Brori was a young jolly Dwarf, round and rosy-cheeked. Thorin wondered what had made him employ such a character - but he had no choice at the moment.

While he'd been waiting for the secretary, Thorin got dressed. The large wardrobe in the bedchamber thankfully belonged to him, and he picked what he thought appropriate. Judging by the the young Dwarf's approving glance, he had chosen right.

"Worry not, my lord. I will ensure no one notices that… you know… You are not quite yourself," the Dwarf said cheerfully.

Thorin gave him a dark glare.

"Today you were to review the renovation plans for the Western Passages, and you have no meetings or audiences, thank Mahal," Brori continued. "I'll walk you through your everyday routine. Your study is just three passages away from here, so it's unlikely we meet anyone or at least that we are to converse with anyone long enough for you to betray your secret."

"Well, lead away, master secretary," Thorin grumbled, irritated by the Dwarf's sprightliness.

Some sort of heavy dull headache was settling behind his temples - and he had a feeling it had nothing to do with the hammer that had fallen on him.

Four hours later he returned in the room and as much as fell on the bed. For four hours he had been bombarded with instructions, details, and stories from his own life! He had been given an absolutely unnecessary tour of his halls, his study, his personal library, his map room, his scroll room, his armoury - at least that was interesting; his second library; his parlour; his audience room; his third library; and finally, his private study. There were papers, maps, letters, parchments, petitions, acts, amendments, declarations, contracts, permits, and agreements. Their life in the Blue Mountains had been all about surviving, about stretching the scarce resources, about making do. In the first years after his Father's disappearance he had returned to the anvil; later he had dedicated more of his time to training as a warrior - in any case it was about more about _doing,_ as opposed to _deciding and commanding others to do_ as he was expected now. And there was a lot to decide! It seemed nothing in Erebor went without his supervision, his orders, and his control. Thorin was getting a migraine.

There were two more hours before the cursed dinner with the cursed woman. Thorin rolled on his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow, and he fell into deep slumber.


	4. Dream and Logic

The first wave of the deep slumber ebbed, and Thorin was swimming in the pleasant half-sleep, his mind still resting, the heavy darkness of his exhaustion having stepped back. He knew not where he was, but the sheets under his were silky and cool…

… _and he brushed his hand along the bare back, down into the dip of her waist, and then his hand covered a round pert buttock, which fit into his palm so very perfectly._

 _He leaned ahead, and brushed his lips to the shoulder tasting her skin. She was cool and delicate - and it thrilled him. He let his mouth slide lower, between the shoulder blades, which were like folded wings of a dove. He'd laugh at his own uncharacteric mawkishness- what a poetic comparison! - but he felt safe and giddy. It felt simply… right._

 _She was supporting herself on her elbows, and he tread the kisses to the left, onto the ribs. The tip of his nose bumped into the side of her soft, small, mouth-watering…_

His eyes flew open, and he jerked sitting upright.

Thorin Oakenshield was no idiot. Obviously, the dream was a memory - and obviously, it was a glorified one. It was a feverish adolescent fantasy, and it was as far from reality as it could be. As inexperienced as he was - had been eighteen years ago, to be precise - he knew where children came from. And since he'd managed to father four, he could conclude that he had had… experiences. And as a warm-blooded Khuzd he had urges of course. So, he could logically postulate right now that being in a bed he had been sharing with a woman awoke - in his temporarily disorganized mind - the said urges; and since he didn't remember what it had been in reality, the aforementioned mind had conjured some sort of a heady illusion.

Best not to linger in it, he commanded himself. He rose off the bed and went to the bathchamber.

While he was washing his hands and face, he heard the door bang in the bedchambers. Thorin tensed.

"Thorin?"

There was the cursed frog again. Thorin suppressed a groan.

"Thorin!"

He quickly wiped his face with a towel and came out. She was standing near the bathchamber door.

"I didn't want to intrude, but you had me worried." Her voice rang with emotion. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright," he grumbled and walked past her.

He had no destination in mind, but neither did he want to have a conversation with her. He'd like to blame his dark mood and his avoidance of her on how much she irked him… but that would be a lie. Those were the lingering images and sensations from the dream that made him put as much distance between them as possible.

"Brori said you did well," she said softly.

He whipped his head and glared at her, all the sudden warming up towards her immediately gone. He 'did well?!" Who was she to have some lousy secretary report Thorin's behaviour to her?!

"Have you had rest afterwards?" she continued her preposterous questioning. "I'm sure it had been overwhelming…"

" _I_ am sure it is up to the healers to decide what is overwhelming and what is not for me."

She suddenly gave out a quiet laugh.

"Well you see, my heart, that's the thing. I _am_ the Chief Healer in the Erebor Infirmary. I have allowed you these hours of work, mostly because I wanted to pacify you. You needed to see that Erebor is safe and prosperous. But now you need rest."

She smiled to him, and he saw red.

"You. Will. Know. Your. Place," he gritted through his clenched teeth. "You are not 'allowing' me anything."

She blinked, and suddenly her face dropped. He saw the corners of her mouth curl downwards. Thorin grimaced. He hoped she wouldn't cry. He couldn't stand feminine tears.

She took a deep breath in, gathering her bearings.

"Perhaps, I should rephrase," she said with difficulty. "From the _medical_ point of view, for you to have the peace of mind and to have a taste of your everyday activities was the right way to proceed. And from the _medical_ point of view you should have rest to let your mind recuperate and absorb the new experiences."

Thorin gave it a thought and nodded curtly to her.

She studied his face and chewed her bottom lip. He once again noticed how wide her mouth was - but then suddenly the plump bottom lip caught his attention. Her white teeth were worrying it.

"Have you slept?" she asked; and he gave her another nod, distracted by his own strange sensations.

"Well, alright then. I'll send for dinner."

She came up to the wall and pulled a long velvet ribbon. A bell rang somewhere in the passages below them.

And then she start opening the lacing on the side of her green surcoat. Thorin froze, staring at her long fingers.

"What are… you… doing?" he rasped out, when she started on the second row of the loops and knots.

She lifted her eyes at him.

"I'm undressing."

Even the irritation at her sarcastic tone didn't help his unease. The apron-like garment fell on the floor; and she stepped out of it. And then it seemed she'd finally noticed his face.

"Mahal help me, I forgot..." she breathed out; and some odd expression ran her features.

"Forgot what?" he gritted through his teeth.

"That you are not used to being in the company of a woman in the state of undress, _my lord_ ," she said. "Or rather you had not been used to before we met."

"I am not," he said, squeezing words out of his throat. "But surely even between a husband and his wife… This wouldn't be appropriate… You should go to… your chambers..." He remembered she resided with him - for some inconceivable reason! - and he offered, "Or bathchambers?"

Their eyes met; and he saw her eyes shine with some sort of a dangerous light.

"It has never seemed to bother you before. Not since the very first night. And you were the one who undressed me then." She then narrowed her eyes, and he almost winced away from her. "And almost every night since then."

She lied! Surely, she lied, Thorin thought. What she was describing - suggesting - couldn't be true. No Dwarf would behave this way! Well, perhaps some would… but not him! And not in the marriage with… _her_! Not a scrap of a girl from Men!

Her fingers lay on the buttons of her dress bodice, and Thorin swallowed a knot in his throat.

She stopped, and then sighed. Thorin was trying to look only at her neck - nowhere below it.

"I will go to the bathchambers," she said quietly, and dropped her hands.

He exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

She started walking by him - he kept his eyes fixed on the floor - but then she paused near him.

"Thorin..."

For the first time since he'd opened his eyes in that cursed bed, she sounded uncertain - softer, and warmer.

He looked up and met her strange slanted eyes.

"I have been married to you for many years, and I know you well," she said. "You're looking at me… well, in disgust, I can't describe it any better. And it… angers me. I'm afraid I'm not being patient or understanding."

If again, just as before, this was an apology - she could have done better, he thought grumpily.

"It is just that… you haven't been behaving in such manner for years," she said.

"What manner?" He immediately bristled.

"Haughty. Cantankerous. Bigoted. Chauvinistic."

Surely, all these synonyms were excessive! He glared at her.

"You have been like that with me, you know?" she continued, and some impish glimmer shone in her eyes. "In the beginning. You were wounded, and I was tending to your injuries. I have to admit I wasn't… reverent then either."

She laughed softly.

"What did you do?" He didn't know why he was asking - it's not as if he cared for the yarn she was spinning.

"I told you off, for travelling wounded. You were returning from the South with a small company, and were attacked near the Lake. You were reckless; and I was… irritated that you would endanger yourself. I saw it as an unnecessary risk. And I could see how worried your men were. I thought then you should have been taking better care of yourself, considering how much your people loved you. You weren't quite as brutish with me then, though. You were clearly taken aback by my manner, but not as… infuriated as you are right now. I assume the Quest and the two years of peace for Erebor had mellowed your temper by then."

Thorin listened. Her calling him 'brutish' hadn't escaped his attention - but neither had the light in her eyes and the meaning of her words.

Perhaps, she was right. Perhaps, that was what it was.

Clearly, he had been changed by the return of Erebor, softened by it, muddled; and that was what had made him marry this unsuitable woman. Something had happened then, when he had been wounded. Perhaps, some sort of a mental affliction had befallen him. He wasn't young either, he suddenly thought. Perhaps, it was mental deterioration.

He sighed and shook his head. Nothing could be done now, could it? Such was his present life - and he was to live it the best he could.

He needed to meet his children. Perhaps, not everything was lost: perhaps, they weren't a complete disappointment. He doubted, considering their mother's… qualities - but he wasn't a rash person. He needed to see for himself.

She waited; but since he gave her no answer, she turned around and headed to the bathchamber.

He decided he'd conclude the dinner as soon as possible, and demand she took him to the children's halls.


	5. Four Little Bears

When she came back from the bathchambers, the woman wore some sort of a voluminous dark red robe, buttoned up to her neck, and something white and gauzy sticking out from under it and in the wide sleeves. At least this garment had golden brocade and gems on it. Her cheeks were also rosy, and the hair was wet on the nape, so he assumed that she'd had a small wash. He also caught the same sweet flower smell as he had noticed on the sheets. Logically, it meant that she indeed slept in that bed. Illogically, he moved a bit closer to catch more of the fragrance.

"I've given it a thought," she said, "And I think we should use this opportunity for you to receive some answers. We can talk over dinner. Please, follow me."

The small parlour she led him to had a table and two chairs inside. It also had a settee, a curio cabinet, and a bookshelf. There was a fireplace, flames dancing in it, and a pair of armchairs in front of it.

Dinner was already served on the table; and Thorin looked at his favourite venison stew with dried plums and juniper berries in a large tureen. His stomach churned; and he threw the woman a look hoping she'd sit down quickly. Manners wouldn't allow him to sit down first; but he suddenly noticed how famished he was.

Thankfully she didn't dawdle; and soon they both were eating.

She started talking while plating his second serving.

"So, what would you like to know? I assume you have a clear picture of what Erebor is like after your hours of work with Brori; but surely there are myriads of things that are bewildering to you right now."

His first hunger ebbing, he felt more at ease; and picking up one more slice of the freshly baked bread, he asked, "What are the names of our children?"

She was looking down into her plate, and he saw her hand freeze, spoon mid-air.

"Your firstborn's name is Thror. Thror, son of Thorin. Then there are Unna, Dain, and Othin. The youngest is only six Springs old. They grow faster than the Dwarven children, but still not as fast as the children of Men." She scooped up a slice of a carrot, but didn't put it in her mouth. She still hadn't lift her eyes from her food. "They are completely Dwarven in appearance and temper. Except Dain. He is… _my_ son."

Thorin frowned. He had felt relief from her comment about the children, of course - but the last part was alarming.

She met his eyes, and he saw that her features were dark.

"He is… lither than the rest. And less… Dwarven. It would be highly appreciated if you treated him equal to the others when you meet them later."

Her lips were pursed, in a grave expression. Thorin put down his spoon.

"Do you honestly expect me to… mistreat my son?" he asked in a low voice. His appetite seemed to have vanished.

"You are not yourself," she said stubbornly. "I can withstand your… attitude towards myself, but I can't possibly allow you to be like this with our children. It will pain them endlessly. They have always been loved and cherished by their Father."

Thorin opened his mouth to tell the woman off - but then he stopped himself. Although the woman's suggestion was insulting, he couldn't help but appreciate the sentiment behind it: she aimed to protect her children - and that was the duty of a mother.

He cleared his throat.

"I will endeavour to be as loving and as cherishing as possible," he answered - and waited.

Her eyebrows jumped up, in a momentarily confusion. She had an expressive face to think of it, when she wasn't keeping it at check. And then she drew her brows together.

"Are you… mocking my words?" she asked in a low voice.

He wasn't. He simply didn't know how to express his sentiment - and her words had been just hanging there, in the air, like the pipeweed smoke.

He studied her face. She sighed, and tiredness replaced the anger in her features.

An uncomfortable unfamiliar thought came: he was looking at a stranger who suddenly turned out his spouse - she was doing exactly the same. She knew a different Thorin, the King Under the Mountain. The Thorin in front of her was years and myriads of experiences younger than the one she had married. Thorin felt almost exhausted from this sudden, foreign emotional effort.

They both went back to eating silently.

* * *

At the first glance, the children seemed… acceptable. They stood in a row in the middle of a large parlour, which Thorin assumed connected their separate chambers. Two nursery room maids stood by the wall.

"Ata, Bis, you can go for the evening," the redhead dismissed the maids.

They bowed and left, throwing looks over their shoulders. Apparently the current proceedings were out of the ordinary.

Standing in their halls, prim and proper, waiting for their Father's evening visit was exactly how Thorin, his younger brother Frerin, and Dis had been expected to behave when they were children. Clearly, these children were brought up differently. Thorin pressed his lips in mild irritation.

Thorin stepped in front of the oldest boy. It was hard not to note the resemblance: the boy looked exactly like Thorin's portraits at the same age. The bright blue eyes were sharp and attentive.

"Evening... Thror," Thorin said.

"Evening, Father." The child greeted him in Khuzdul and gave him a small decorous nod. "Mother has informed us of the unfortunate incident. We hope you aren't pained. We also understand your memory has been affected." The boy's pronunciation was imbeccable.

"Does your head hurt, adad?" a higher small voice asked from the other end of the line; and Thorin turned his head to look.

The smallest boy - Othin, Thorin remembered the name - was studying Thorin with the round eyes of the same blue colour.

"Mine does," the boy added proudly. "Dain smacked me. He's better than I am at swords. But it's alright. I will hit him with my hammer tomorrow. It's hammer training tomorrow, and I'm stronger, but he's fast, so he might..."

"Othin." The woman's tense voice stopped the boy in his tracks; and he quickly looked at her. Thorin realised, he'd forgotten she was in the room.

"I'm sorry, amad." The boy shifted his eyes guiltily. "I know adad is tired, but I needed to tell him! It's just every time it's sword, Dain..."

The boy was interrupted by the third child in the line, the red-haired boy, who placed his hand on Othin's shoulder.

"You will win tomorrow, Othin. And you will tell adad about it." Dain had the same soft cadence in his voice as his Mother.

The youngest boy immediately calmed down and grinned from ear to ear.

Dain lifted his slanted green eyes and gave Thorin a calm smile.

"Evening, adad."

"Good evening, Dain."

Thorin knew he wasn't the most sensitive and observant when it came to women and children and... emotions - but even he could sense the strange serenity in his third child. While the oldest would say 'we' and bore himself with dignity and authority expected from the Heir of the line of Durin; it was the lithe red-haired boy, of the same height as the oldest of the children, who was the pace setter.

Thorin looked at his second child, his only daughter. She looked so much like his Mother! The same profile, dark blue eyes, the haughty line of lips. All of the children with the exception of Dain, just as Thorin's wife had said, looked utterly Dwarven - and Unna was surely to grow into a renown beauty. Thorin wondered if she had also inherited his Mother's proficiency with the battle axe.

"Evening, Father," the girl said, and met his eyes directly.

"Evening, Unna."

"Perhaps, we should sit," the woman said in the background. "Children, you should tell your adad of what you've been doing today. It might help him… to accustom himself with you better."

"I got hit to the head!" Othin immediately decided to make himself heard. "And Master Dwalin dropped his shield on his foot on the training grounds, and he said..."

Dain's narrow hand lay over Othin's mouth; while Thror had started coughing, clearly to cover up the next word that was threatening to fall off Othin's lips.

Thorin noticed from the corner of his eyes that the girl, Unna rolled her eyes. Somehow the gesture struck Thorin as something she had borrowed from her Mother.

"Perhaps, we should sit," the woman repeated, her tone even more strained. Thorin could see how straight and rigid her back was.

Contrary to her obvious expectations, Thorin felt suddenly entertained.

The children walked to the long settee by the wall; and the boys waited for their sister to take her seat, while the woman sat down in a large armchair. There was a book on medicinal herbs in it, which she hastily pushed on the escritoire near it. Thorin deduced the woman had the habit of spending her time in that armchair, since the book was clearly hers.

Thorin took the second chair, near her, a larger one; and suddenly the youngest boy was in front of him, and a small hot hand lay on Thorin's lap.

"Othin, perhaps not tonight..." the woman started, in a warning tone; and even rose a tad in her seat.

Thorin picked up the boy and put him on his lap. The boy was heavy, sturdy, and smelled like sweets.

"So, Othin, you go first," Thorin said. "What happened with Master Dwalin and his shield?"


	6. Good Night

Thorin and the woman were walking back from the children's halls. He had spent three hours there, in the most pleasant conversation; and if not for Othin who started yawning widely and kept dropping his heavy head on Thorin's shoulder, Thorin would still be listening about the children's classes, tutors, and training.

The woman had rung for a maid, who came and took the youngest prince to his room. The other three said their goodbyes; and Thorin and the woman left.

He threw her a side glance. Unlike him she didn't seem to appreciate how the evening had gone. Her strange face was dark, and her hands were fisted. Thorin's mood immediately dropped.

A courtier rushed by, and she quickly pulled a polite smile onto her face. That irked Thorin even more.

They returned to the bedchamber; and she stopped in front of the bed. Suddenly Thorin wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He desperately wanted to take off his doublet; the room was very warm. But undressing in front of her was inconceivable. On the other hand, it wouldn't be that affecting to her, he reminded himself. They seemed to have utterly inappropriate domestic habits. Thorin gritted his teeth. He couldn't possibly ask her what was appropriate and what wasn't - but the cursed velvet collar was unpleasantly rubbing his neck!

The woman studied him for a few seconds; and then she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Would you like me to draw you a bath?" the woman asked - and he gawked at her flabbergasted.

Suddenly she burst into loud laughter.

"Oh Mahal help me, your face!" She waved her hand at him; her shoulders shaking; eyes squinted. "I bet you looked less aghast when you found a live dragon in your Mountain. I can almost hear your mind screaming in internal panic."

Thorin opened his mouth - and then closed. And then opened it again.

"Mahal help me..." She sounded breathy now, and she pressed her narrow hand into her side. "Oh goodness, I didn't expect to laugh any time soon; but the face..." She was mixing her words with small giggles. "If I turned into a goblin in front of your eyes, I bet you'd be less dismayed."

Thorin stood, his mouth half open - without any idea of what to say to her.

"And aye, husband of mine, I do draw you baths. And..." She focused at him and widened her eyes dramatically. "And share them with you," she whispered.

He knew she had aimed to shock him - but still he couldn't stop his jaw from dropping. She roared with laughter again.

"It's all in the book, you know?" she finally said, when her frolics subsided.

"What book?" he rasped out.

He felt… stunned. As if a heavy Orc mace had met his helm. His ears were ringing. She had intended to shake him up - and she had succeeded. He was… offended by such proposition, wasn't he? And by the picture of their marriage she was painting! It was… unbefitting, wasn't it? Surely, this strange heat that flushed his cheeks was his rightful chagrin - wasn't it? It was his… umbrage that made him stare at her, at her cheeks, much rosier than just a few minutes before; at the shining eyes; and the red lips.

" _Shahnel Bakhan,_ " she answered, her voice now nonchalant.

Thorin knew of the book. It contained centuries of domestic wisdom of his people - and even in his conservative traditionalistic family it had been considered somewhat… antiquated. He distinctly remembered his Mother regularly referring to the book in her conversations with his Father - but only to get her point across when his Father seemed unreasonable to her. 'The next thing you'll do will be quote _Shahnel Bakhan,_ Thrain!' her voice rang in Thorin's memory.

"What about… the book?" Thorin was still unable to compose a more coherent question.

"Well, as a good Dwarven wife I have studied it. As it contains a set of comprehensive rules and practices for _both_ people in the union," she deadpanned. "One of the rules clearly states that a spouse is to aid their spouse to be _usanul_ and _binukhgur._ "

Her odd lilting voice wrapped around 'clean' and 'odourless' in Khuzdul, somehow giving both of the words some vague hidden meaning.

"It was a rule that had to do with the order of washing in the households at the old time! When dirt meant diseases!" Thorin exclaimed, desperately trying to gather his bearings.

"And indeed, I do not wish you to fall ill," she answered in the same even cordial tone. "And because you are, as well, a considerate Dwarven spouse sometimes it is you who… fills the tub, and adds the oils, and… rubs my back."

And then she unbuttoned the top of her robe!

Thorin sucked some air in through clenched teeth preparing to tell her he didn't need any bath or any… back rubbing, when she had the nerve to laugh again. And then she lowered her hands and said, "I am jesting, my heart. You don't need a bath, you've taken a bath this morning. A very _thorough_ one."

She then cocked her head again and her slanted eyes ran his face.

"Well alright, I'll stop teasing you. It feels almost cruel," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "And I will sleep in my study. It has a lovely divan."

"I can't let you sleep on a divan in your study!" Thorin exclaimed. "It's unbecoming!"

"No one will find out," she brushed off his concern. "I've done it before."

Thorin shortly wondered what the circumstances of that previous separate sleeping had been, but he had more important matters to attend to at the moment.

"Who cares if anyone finds out?" he scoffed. "I'm not making my wife leave her usual sleeping spot for some uncomfortable divan. I'm sure there's somewhere I can sleep instead!"

"You need to stay in your usual place and follow your routine. That's what any healer would tell you." She pointed at the door leading to the parlour. "My study is just there, through to the next room. If anything happens."

Thorin scowled.

"What do you mean by 'if anything happens?' I'll be perfectly alright."

"You will be because I'm leaving Gylta with you. She's my assistant in the infirmary, and she will stay with you half the night. The first night is the most dangerous after a head injury. I'll come and take her place later."

"I'm not having your maid sitting and staring at me while I sleep!" Thorin barked.

"She's my _assistant,_ not a maid; and I trust her to notice if your breathing changes in your sleep because blood floods your brain!" The woman seemed to have lost her temper just as Thorin had. "Mahal be merciful, I've forgotten how stubborn you used to be!" Her voice was rising. "Everything is a battle! Everything is an argument unless _you_ have come up with the idea!"

"Don't expect me to follow your orders," Thorin roared, losing the remaining patience. "I am not the obedient pup you seem to have whipped me into!"

She was driving him mad! He was starting to realise what she was telling him of the Thorin she had wed could be true - although he just could not imagine how it could be!

"How dare you?!" Her eyes were burning, and the long-fingered hands were once again clenched into fists. Contrary to his expectation, she didn't back away from him. Instead she stepped forward, almost making him wince away from her. "How dare you apply that I would ever try changing you? You never were a 'pup.' I was just fortunate to be married to a man who remembered that we were on the same side! The man who listened first, just in case there was something to my words!"

Bright red spots were now flaming on her cheekbones; and the eyes were suddenly as green as Iron Hills emeralds.

"I don't care if you don't want to listen to me as your wife!" she continued as much as snarling at him. "You will listen to me as your healer. You will sleep in our bed, in our bechamber; and an educated healer will stay near you to make sure Erebor still has a King in the morning! And my children still have a Father! However pale the imitation is!"

She then turned and stormed out of the room. The door banged loudly behind her.

* * *

The healer showed up when he was already in bed. He'd turned away, to face away from the room, to the window; and pulled covers over himself. The girl quietly sat down, he could hear the armchair make a small creak.

Thorin closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. The smell from the pillow filled his nose; and he noisily exhaled, trying to chase the sweet fragrance that had immediately flooded his senses.

He seemed to have slept for just an instant - and then his eyes flew open. The room was dark.

"My lady, it has only been two hours," he heard the Dwarven girl whisper. She had a thick Iron Hills accent.

"It's alright, Gylta. I'll sit with the King." The woman was quiet for a few seconds; and then he heard her whisper, "I can't sleep in any case. I just..."

"You're worried, my lady. We all are," the girl answered comfortingly.

"Pray to Mahal, Gylta, that you never have to face this. Let's pray Erebor is in peace for many Springs; and you never have to watch you loved one lie in a bed, when you don't know if they will recover from their wounds." The woman huffed a small exhale. "Would you just listen to me, how pompous I sound. It's just this night brings back memories, some of my worst ones."

"I am sorry, my lady."

"Thank you. And now go. There is no point for both of us to lose sleep tonight. It's the beginning of the inventory tomorrow; and at least one of us should be awake and sharp."

They said their goodbyes; the armchair creaked again; and then the door closed softly. Thorin squeezed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.


	7. Lick and Click

**Author's Note:**

 **My dear dearreader, that is an AMAZING idea: to stimulate Thorin's memory with smells. I'm definitely using it! (Wren's signature fragrance is lilacs, so let's stick his long nose into it!) Thank you for reading and reviewing!**

 **And thank you, all of my readers! I didn't expect to see so many of you after all this time! And especially thank you for the reviews! I've forgotten how thrilling it is to receive them!**

 **Love you all ardently!**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

He opened his eyes. The room was still dark. He'd turned in his sleep, and now he could see the woman sitting in the chair. A small lamp burned near her, on a low bedside cabinet. She had a book on her lap but she wasn't reading. She seemed to be deep in her thoughts. He could see her pale long fingers aimlessly move on the armrest in a repetitive pattern.

Thorin thought of what she'd said to her maid: how that wasn't the first time she'd been sitting near his bed while he was recovering. And then he felt irritated by his own skittishness; and he decisively shifted and then sat down.

"Thorin?"

Their eyes met; and he cleared his throat.

She was on her feet in an instant, and walked up to the bed. She then picked up a jug and a goblet from the bedside table and poured the water.

"Here."

She handed him the glass. Only then he realised that he was painfully thirsty. He took the goblet and drank it greedily.

"You're always thirsty at night," she muttered and poured some more water.

He drank it as well. She was right. As long as he remembered, he'd always been tortured by thirst in the wee hours of the night.

"Thank you."

She nodded and picked up the goblet.

"You should be able to fall asleep again now. Does you head hurt?" She turned away to put the glass down.

"No, it doesn't. But I am not tired," he said stubbornly.

She threw him a look. She, on the other hand, looked exhausted. Her skin was pale, and showed the tiredness easy: there were purple shadows lying under her eyes. She looked even more sickly than before.

"It's because you slept during the day. It's your insomnia." She went back to the armchair and sank in it heavily. "You should still rest."

"I will. But first tell me a bit about… our life," he said.

She rubbed her forehead.

"What would you like to know?" she asked in a bleak voice.

"Has there been a war? Since we reclaimed Erebor?"

"No, it has been peace. There have been some smaller altercations. For a few years after the death of the wyrm, you would go to the raids with the Skinchanger."

He threw her a confused look.

"Beorn, the Skinchanger. He's the leader of the people living South of Dale. They guard the passages across the Misty Mountains. You and King Bard of Dale and Esgaroth would go fight the Goblins that had infested the High Pass. By the time Dain was born, there were no more raids."

That explained her comment about him being wounded.

"Is that where the scars are from?" he asked, his hand unconsciously flying to his chest.

"The large one on your left side… that one is from the Battle of the Five Armies. You almost died then." A small distressed grimace ran her features. "Did Balin tell you of it?"

Thorin nodded.

"And the one on the right side of your chest," she continued, "that is the one that brought you to my infirmary on that day. The wound was less serious than the first one, but it healed poorly, so the scar is more noticeable."

He nodded again, contemplating.

"If you want you can take off your tunic and point them out, I can give you a detailed account on each of the scars," she murmured, shaking him out of his thoughts.

She sat in the same relaxed pose as before, but her voice had dropped, into an almost purr. Thorin tensed.

"You have lost all of your sense of humour, haven't you?" she said in a normal tone again and chuckled. "Even if you suddenly reversed to the libidinous flirtatious Thorin I knew and started licking my neck, we would have to abstain. It is not safe for your head. Besides, I can hardly stand." She stretched in her chair with a quiet groan. "I doubt I'd be able to participate as enthusiastically as you are fond of."

Thorin once again was gawking at her silently.

"You should try to sleep, my lord," she said, now sounding almost exasperated.

And he lay down and turned away from her. One thought seemed to bounce in his suddenly empty head. Why would he _lick_ her neck?!

* * *

In the morning, he found her on the same armchair, but in a different dress. Once he sat up and rubbed his eyes; she quickly wished him a good morning and pulled the velvet ribbon on the wall. He assumed the bell would ring in a kitchen signalling a maid to bring him breakfast.

"I have requested your favourite meal last night. Six eggs and ham," she said.

"Thank you."

He felt rested, and his mood was significantly better than the night before. He also seemed to have had a pleasant dream, which he couldn't recall.

"Would like me to draw you a bath?" she asked. This time her tone was even and mundane, in the contrast to her previous day's preposterous goading.

"Yes, please." He rose and followed her to the bathchamber.

There was a water chute above the giant tub; and when she pulled another velvet string, warm water rushed down. She let it run, and walked to the cabinet by the wall. Behind the glass of the door, Thorin could see a multitude of bottles, vials, and jars.

She filled a small basket with several of the vessels and brought it to the small table near the tub.

"This is soap root extract, for your hair." She shook a bottle in front of him, and put it back. "The oil, for after you dry it." She pointed at a tall glass vial. "This is your soap, juniper just like you like it." She continued pointing and explaining.

Curiosity woke up in Thorin; and while listening to her he picked up a small clay juglet and pulled a cork out. A sharp spicy smell hit his nose.

"It's..." she started.

"Dunland mint. For the pains and old wounds," he interrupted.

The two of them stared at each other.

"Had you known it before..?" she asked, whispering for some reason.

Thorin shook his head.

"I just smelled it and… it sort of popped up in my mind," he whispered back.

She rushed ahead and grabbed the soap bar. She shoved it under his nose, and he inhaled.

"Juniper soap, your favourite. Does it bring back any memories?" she asked urgently.

He inhaled the aroma again. It was surely familiar; and some emotion stirred in him - but he had no name for it, and no memories came.

He shook his head, and picked up the vial with the oil for his hair. He pulled the cork out and a sweet fragrance tickled his nose.

His eyes closed…

… _warmth spread through his body; and he sighed contently. Small nimble fingers ran through his locks, short nails scraping the scalp pleasantly. She softly untangled the hair, and then the tips of her fingers brushed his temples._

" _Silver in ebony," she whispered._

 _Amusement bubbled in him._

" _How poetic, wife of mine."_

" _Don't deprive me of my joy." She gave out a silver laugh. "I have the right to touch your hair now. I'm planning to savour the privilege every night."_

Thorin's eyes flew open. The woman's gaze was intent on his face.

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"It smells… familiar. I think I remember you putting it in my hair." He cleared his throat.

"Is that all?" she asked. The corners of her lips drooped in disappointment.

"What is the smell on the linen in the bed?" he asked hurriedly, cowering from the previous conversation. "It seems to be most… affecting. I keep noticing it."

"It's lilacs. I'm fond of the fragrance. I have oils and soap," she answered without enthusiasm. "I also bring the bunches of them from Dale in May, and dry them, to put sachets between the linens in the cupboard. You never minded before."

"I don't mind it right now either," he said. "It's… pleasant."

She turned away from him and clanked with some bottles. It didn't look like any of her movements had any purpose - except to allow her to hide her face from him.

"Pleasant..." She gave out a small bitter laugh. "That's your word for something you care little about. 'The visit to King Thranduil's Halls was pleasant.' 'This wine is pleasant.' 'The dress on Lady Dis is pleasant.' It just means you don't want to say something derisive."

Her shoulders were tense, and she sighed again. Thorin felt a mixture of pity - a foreign and uncomfortable emotion - and irritation; and then he fully understood what she'd just said.

"We visit the Woodland Realm?!"

She stood in silence for a few instants; and then turned to face him. To his utter dismay, he saw tears in her eyes.

"But of course that would be most important," she muttered, and inhaled nosily.

He felt immediately scared that she would cry - but her tears didn't spill. She drew a deep breath.

"We do. You two… tolerate each other, for political reasons. As Balin probably explained to you, you had fought in the Battle of the Five Armies together. Since then, trade and political alliance had grown between the two kingdoms."

She walked away from him, towards a large wardrobe.

"Your towels and undergarments are here." She pointed at one of the doors. "After the bath I can help you choose an attire for today. You once again can work with Brori all day. I'm sure you have plenty to do." She turned and folded her hands in front of her body mannerly. "If you don't need me, I'll take my leave. Today is the first day of the annual infirmary inventory."

Suddenly he felt uncertainty and fear clench at his heart. As difficult as he found accepting that she was his wife, at the moment she was the only person he knew.

Asking her to stay would not do of course; but he wondered if he could somehow convince her to join him at breakfast.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. She gave him a puzzled look.

"Do you have any of the lilac oil? I would like to try to smell it as well," he blurted out.

She hesitated for a second and then nodded and went to the cupboard.

A small glass bottle traveled into his hand, and he opened the cork.


	8. Lilacs

_The fragrance of lilacs hit his nose. The room was semi-dark; and he tried to see the bed. The maids rushed around, carrying some crumpled sheets and basins; and he craned his neck._

" _Is there anything else you need, your Majesty?" someone asked; and Thorin stepped ahead, avoiding yet another person on his way._

 _She didn't answer. Her eyes were locked with his, and he gave her an uncertain smile._

 _He crossed the last few steps and approached the bed. She bit her bottom lip, in the familiar gesture. She looked pale and tired, but there was some new softness in her features, and she'd never looked more radiant to him! Her hair was freshly washed and glowed like a cloud of golden flames around her head and on her shoulders._

 _And then his eyes dropped on the bundle in her arms. The babe was asleep; and Thorin couldn't tear his gaze off the small nose and soft coils of dark hair that lay on top of the head._

" _Come, my love," she said softly, and he carefully sat on the edge of the bed._

 _He gingerly lifted his hand, his fingers shaking slightly. He didn't dare to touch, suddenly struck by how fragile his son looked._

" _He's healthy and strong," she said and threw the boy a loving glance. "He's eaten, and we both have bathed."_

 _Thorin felt tears run down his cheek, and no embarrassment came. He leaned ahead and pressed a kiss on his wife's temple. The hair tickled his nose, flooding his senses with the familiar aroma._

" _Could I hold him?" he whispered; and she smiled to him widely._

" _Of course."_

 _She slowly moved her arms, rearranging the babe._

" _I love you," he whispered, before the weight of his firstborn lay into his arms._

" _And I you," she answered warmly; and while he watched the boy's serene face, her head lay on his shoulder._

" _Look at him. So perfect..." she whispered. "Thror, son of Thorin."_

* * *

Thorin blinked, clearing the haze.

"Thorin?" she called; and he focused his eyes on her.

Thorin swallowed a knot in his throat.

"I remembered… Thror. How I saw him after he was born. In this room, on this bed."

She was frowning, her eyes scrutinising his face. Thorin chuckled, suddenly amused by the misgiving splashing in her eyes.

"I was scared to hold him because he looked so small," Thorin said. "And you had just taken a bath, and smelled of the oil. Your hair did."

He saw her lips tremble, and her throat jerked. She took a sharp breath, probably trying to calm herself - but it didn't help. Neither did sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. He watched her struggle with emotions, and a shadow of admiration woke up in him. He would disapprove of mawkishness - but even he could understand how much his words would affect someone in her position.

She looked away from him, and her hands fisted and unfisted.

"It was a proud day for you, I suppose," she said. "You told me on many occasions that you had never hoped to father an heir. You hadn't intended on marrying either, but according to you, I had changed your mind." The last statement made her throw him a quick glare. "Not that I had ever tried to. I assume it was just your idea of a good-natured teasing."

She picked up the oil bottle out of his hands, and placed it back into the cupboard.

"I'll leave you to it then," she muttered. "Brori will wait for your in the parlour."

She hastily left the room; and Thorin looked around him in uncertainty. The tub was full of water now. On her way out she'd pulled at the string, closing the chute. He stopped in front of the table with jars and bottles, and then muttered a curse under his breath. He'd already forgotten what was for what. And there was no one around to ask.

* * *

They'd been working with papers for what seemed like days; when the secretary finally inquired whether Thorin was hungry. The honest answer would be that he'd been famished for hours, but also engaged in the myriads of tasks that required his attention. His mood had been rather sour for the last couple hours as well, the rumbling of his stomach only adding to his irritation.

A thought came, which he immediately tried to ignore: maybe the woman would join him at his midday meal. He wanted to talk about the past some more; but definitely not to the jaunty young Dwarf he had been locked up in the room with for the past few hours.

"Will you take your meal here, or do you wish to go back to your halls?" Brori asked, in the same unpleasantly cheerful tone; and Thorin grumbled that the halls would be preferable.

It had been a mistake.

She hadn't shown up, and he ended up eating his stew alone, in the deafening silence of an empty parlour.

In the second half of the day, the proceedings repeated themselves. He worked; and then his dinner was served in the same parlour.

Thorin jerked the velvet ribbon; and waited. A knock came to the door a few minutes later; and a young Dwarf, a courtier as Thorin assumed, came in.

"My lord, how can I be of assistance?"

"Lady Wren? Where is she?" Thorin asked.

"Her majesty is in the infirmary. All healers are taking their meals there tonight. Shall I pass her a message?"

The Dwarf's face was schooled in the proper polite expression, but as much as he hid it, surprise still coloured his features. Thorin internally cursed.

"Aye, please. I wish to speak to her at her convenience. It's not urgent though," Thorin added. "It could wait till tomorrow."

The courtier bowed and was dismissed.

After his meal, Thorin went to his study, a large room adjacent to the parlour. Brori had explained to him that normally Thorin would work in it after dinner, until it was time to repose.

The room was endlessly pleasant. Thorin took an immediate fancy to the heavy oaken furniture, the maps on the walls, and especially, the large desk by the Western wall.

He sat on it, enjoying the perfect height and comfort of the tall-backed chair. The multitude of drawers contained exactly what he expected: letters, maps, scrolls, legers, and registers. Everything was organised exactly how he'd do it - and then he remembered that he was the one who had done it. He opened them one by one, flipping through papers, skimming through letters. Everything only confirmed what he had already learnt in his hours of work and the conversations with Brori. Erebor was flourishing. And just as she'd said, alliances had been formed with the Woodland Realm and the cities of Men. Thorin quite approved ofthe tone of the letters from King Bard: the Man didn't make the runes dance and showed himself practical, sober, and concise. Thorin did _not_ approve of the ornate writing of the Elvenking - and the endless verbosity that was obviously hiding scorn and mockery behind all the pleasantries.

In the bottom drawer Thorin found a silver keepsake box. He put it on the table in front of him and opened the gem decorated lid. Inside he found four traditional crystal vials, with small locks of hair, three dark ones, and one of the brightest copper; a large silver case, which contained the portraits of his children, surrounding the larger one of his wife; a thick stack of letters, tied together with a purple ribbon; and another ribbon, of green colour this time. He pulled the latter out and lifted it to his eyes. No memories came; and he twirled it in his fingers. Unlike the purple one, it wasn't of expensive silk; and looked somewhat worn out.

He placed it back, and picked up the letters.

Each of them started with _My dearest Thorin_. They were long, written in neat purposeful runes. Thorin read. Years and years of their marriage flashed before his eyes: his military excursions; his trips to Iron Hills; her travels. She had a talent for storytelling, it seemed. The letters contained anecdotes, colourful and vivid, some sad, some aiming to entertain. The letters were detailed, but not mawkish. There were no proclamations of undying love; but the words carried warmth and affection between them.

Having read the last one, Thorin spent another half an hour in his chair, pondering.

* * *

Crossing the parlour towards the bedroom, he noticed light streaming from under the door which, he assumed, led to her study. It was past midnight.

Thorin didn't enjoy the hesitation he was feeling - so he marched to the door and decisively knocked on it. No answer came; so he pushed it. It wasn't locked and opened silently.

The room was quite a contrast to his. It was small and crowded, full of bookshelves and cabinets. A large chiffonier was full of jars, and bottles, all labelled and containing some dried herbs. The large escritoire near it was covered with papers, letters, and books. To think of it, books were everywhere, including the tall towers they were forming on the floor.

She was asleep, on a low divan just as she'd mentioned. She was still dressed in her morning attire, and one shoe was still on her foot. Her hands were folded under her cheek in a childish gesture. He saw linens and covers folded on a chair near the divan. She was curled, her knees pulled up towards her chest. Thorin wondered if she was cold. The fireplace in the room wasn't lit.

A few lines from a letter of hers came to his mind: _I have disobeyed you, my darling, and slept in my study again. I just cannot bring myself to sleep in our bed without you. I could just imagine the racy thoughts that will rush through your mind when you read these words; but believe me, my libidinous king, it is the warmth of your embrace and the safety of your closeness that I miss the most._

Thorin stepped closer, and looked at the sleeping face of his wife.

* * *

 _ **To be continued...**_

 _Author's Note:_

Have you checked out my Wattpad page? The name there is Katya Kolmakov, and the characters in my webserials there might be familiar ;) I've just started a new one, with a tall, dark, blue-eyed Cerberus, and a small freckled girl, who might or might not be Persephone :D Have a look!

Cheers! xx


	9. Just For Show

He carefully lowered the cover over her, and then placed another over her feet. It was time to leave, he knew - but something held him back. He tilted his head, studying her.

She didn't make sense - that was what bothered him, he realised. It had been only a day and a half of his new life; and everything he saw and learnt made sense. Except for her. If asked, as it turned out now, all those years ago, he would have told exactly what he wanted for his people: to reclaim Erebor, to rebuild their lives. And he had achieved it. And what she had said was true - he had never expected to wed and have children. And now it turned out he had. But his choice was inconceivable. Why her? Why a woman _like her_?

And then he leaned in and lightly brushed the back of his hand to her cheek. The skin was smooth and as if dusted with gold - because of the freckles. The cheek was cool.

In the silence of her study, in the late hour, she seemed so very different from the woman he saw during the day. She now looked small and delicate; and even in her sleep he could see the mournful line of her lips. Small wrinkles fanned in the corners of her eyes, and there were silver locks in her now disheveled copper mane. The hair seemed to never end, springs and waves scattered on the cushion she had under her cheek.

He gently picked up a lock that got tangled in the clasp on her collar and moved it off her face.

And then she inhaled deeply, and her hand flew up, her fingers wrapping around his.

She muttered something, and rolled as if seeking closeness. He quickly bent and pressed his hand into her shoulder, worried she'd fall off the divan.

"I'm sleeping..." she murmured, and nuzzled his hand. "Let me sleep..."

He froze, utterly at loss what he was supposed to do. He was now half-bent, looming over his sleeping wife; and she had quite a grip on his hand!

Thorin gently pulled, and she made a small unhappy noise.

"Um..." How was he supposed to address her? Surely not 'Lady Wren!'

And then her eyes opened, and she stared at him.

"Um..." Thorin repeated, internally cursing himself.

"Oh..." Her gaze cleared. "Are you..."

"I saw the light and was… worried." He cleared his throat in unease. "That you'd forgotten to put out a candle, or..."

"Oh it's still you," she said; and let go of his hand.

She sat up, and he looked at her in confusion. And then he understood.

"It is still the… old me," he said.

She nodded, her face dark.

He didn't want what to say. That he'd found the letters? That he could see that they had had a good life and a good marriage? And that he wanted to understand? He simply didn't know how to speak of such things - except he knew he wanted to.

"You can go back to sleep. I'll put out the candle." She looked around herself, and the frown deepened. "Did you… cover me?"

"You looked cold," he said.

Her eyes flew up to his face. He saw surprise in them.

"I'm always cold. It's because I'm so disgustingly thin." They looked at each other for a few instants; and then she frowned again. "As I'm sure you've noticed and have venomously commented on in your mind many times by now."

Thorin felt unpleasantly startled by her perceptiveness - and immediately he felt angry. He didn't enjoy being opened and picked bit by bit apart like a fowl for dinner! She needed to keep her snarky remarks to herself! He had!

"Have a good night… my lady."

He stomped out of the room.

He plopped on the bed, on his back, and stared at the dark velvet canopy above his head. Some uneasy thought nagged at his mind; but he wasn't sure what it was - so he just climbed under his covers and went to sleep.

* * *

The next three days went in about the same manner. He worked, ate, and visited the children in the evening. They seemed freer with him now; and he enjoyed the time spent with them.

The children's halls were the only place he saw her - and during his daily morning examination.

After his breakfast, she would come to the bedchamber, always with another two healers. They'd ask him questions, study his eyes, ask him to close them and touch his nose, and all other sort of nonsense - and then once again they would agree that he didn't remember the last eighteen years of his life, but was otherwise healthy.

By the end of day four Thorin decided that it was time to investigate his marriage. It was the only puzzling aspect of his life, he told himself; and while he could learn and easily keep up with his other responsibilities, his union with that woman would require rather troublesome efforts: talking to her, asking questions, listening to her sarcastic answers, and discussing emotions.

He was walking through the already familiar passages, towards the bedchamber, lost in his thoughts. He kept telling himself if he had followed the example of his kin and married politically, to a Dwarven dame with excellent family tree and some valuable skills she could bring into their household and their rule - he wouldn't have found himself in this unpalatable conundrum.

He turned a corner and bumped into a young maid. She had a tray with food on it. She had also been obviously crying: her eyes were red and puffy.

"Pardon, my lord," she muttered; and then her face scrunched in a miserable grimace. "Pardon… I just… the supper for my lady..."

And then she sobbed and rushed by him, towards his wife's study. He had no choice but to follow her. She tried to hurry, constantly looking back over her shoulder; and he saw the soup splosh out of the bowl on the tray.

And then she stopped in front of the study; and started shaking so much that the dishes were clanking on the tray. He huffed air in irritation, walked around her, and knocked on the door.

"Come in, Til," the voice of his wife rang behind the door; and Thorin pushed it open.

"My lady..." the one called Til started, and then sobbed.

"Lady Wren, I am..." Thorin started at the same time, hoping to silence the nonsensical maid and to avoid any awkwardness.

The last thing he needed was to be suspected that he was sneaking into his wife's study… under a maid's skirts!

The resulting calamity was exactly the opposite to what he'd tried to achieve.

At the sound of the appellation he used the maid burst into tears; the tray started keeling; and both him and his wife rshed ahead to pick it up. They bumped into each; dishes rang; some cups and plates fell, somebroke, some rolled - and then he saw she was undressed.

There was a gauzy shirt, sleeveless; and a corset; and a cloud of white lacy skirts - but he could also see so much of the pale skin!

The tray slid out of his hands; and she deftly caught it. And then she pushed it onto some shelf and stepped forward - and then her whole body was pressed into him.

"Evening, my darling husband," she purred.

His ears rang, and he swallowed with difficulty - and only then he realised that the maid wasn't crying anymore. He could feel the redhead's strong hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in insistently.

The slanted burning eyes were right in front of him; and he could see the bright red lips - and he closed his eyes and dove in.

He had kissed a woman before; he wasn't a complete tot! But it had been decades ago; and with all honesty it had never been something that had held his attention for long, or came back to his memory. There had always been more important matters, other thoughts to focus on.

No other thoughts seemed to occupy his mind at the moment - just the sweet warm lips, the smell of her soap, and her body pressed flush into his. Her second hand snaked into his hair, at the back of his head, and the short nails scraped his scalp. He gasped - and felt the tip of her tongue run the inside of his lips. He realised he'd been clutching her shoulders, trying to pull her closer - and he only noticed because the skin under his palms was impossibly soft, like silk. She was moving, and he assumed whatever it was she was doing - and it was intoxicating! - was how one kissed. And he loved it! He mimicked her gestures, opening her lips now; and then catching the bottom one between his on his own accord. His initiative gained him a soft, hardly audible moan from her.

And then suddenly his hands were empty and his wet lips felt cold.

"She's..." she croaked, and hastily cleared her throat. "She's gone now. We can stop pretending."

Thorin purposefully blinked.

She turned away from him and marched to a large trunk by the wall.

"I apologise, this was… uncalled for. But the nonsensical girl has been crying since the first night I started sleeping in the study. I told her it was because of the inventory, but she didn't believe me, I reckon." She made an irritated noise. "And I apologise for my state of undress. We've been moving crates tonight, and there was all that dust, and..."

She kept talking, but Thorin wasn't listening.

She'd pretended! The kiss had been a pretense!

"I think it wise to limit the number of people in the know; and if you remembered what Til can be like, you'd agree with me," the woman finished.

He blinked again and finally noticed that the maid had indeed been gone; and that his wife had put on that dark red robe of hers over her undergarments. Thorin felt like an imbecile - and if there was anything he hated with all his might it was feeling inadequate!

She'd kissed him to deceive the maid - to pretend that he was still the same person. So, logically one could conclude that the man she was wed to deserved her kisses, her caresses, her breath fluttering on his lips - while he, Thorin, King-in-the-Exile, was only worthy of sneering at, mockery, and her coldness! She wasn't even looking at his right now!

Several remarks came to his mind, one angrier than the other; but as wounded and offended as he felt, he still knew that on the surface he had nothing to blame her for. To think of it, it was he who was to blame for his current near apoplexy state! Apparently one kiss from this frog - and he was ready to mewl and beg for treats like a housetrained mutt!

"What can I help you with?" she asked, settling the tray on her desk.

"You could start by looking at me when addressing me," he gritted through his teeth; and she indeed threw him a glance over her shoulder.

Her eyebrows jumped up, in a mild confusion, her face still calm.

"Pardon?"

He exhaled through rounded lips, internally berating himself for the loss of control.

"I have given it a thought, and I've decided we should take our meals together. To help us to… adjust to this new situation," he said stately.

She hesitated, her hand with sugar tongs frozen mid-air. For an instant he saw her face waver; but she quickly schooled it back into the same cold expression.

"Perhaps," she answered. He could bet his sword - assuming he still possessed the Deathless - her answer was as empty as a barber's shop in an Elf dwelling.

"But after the inventory, alright?" she continued, and the sugar lump finally landed in her cup. "I do not wish to burden you, and my routine has been put on its head these days."

She once again wasn't looking at him!

"It's alright, I can wait for you," he stubbornly stated. "Spending time together will help."

"Well, perhaps after the inventory is over, we won't even have to," she said.

He frowned.

"Why?"

"Your memory could be back any day," she answered offhandedly.

And that's when it dawned on him.

"You're intending to avoid me until it does!" he roared. Some sort of red haze curtained his vision. "You loathe even looking at me! I am still your husband and the master of this house! You can't… stuff me in a cupboard until I am… myself again!"

"But you aren't yourself! You are not!" She was raising her voice as well. "You are not… him!"

"So, I don't remember some details of our life! I am still your husband!" He couldn't tell why it was important for him to remind her of this fact.

"A few days ago you looked at me like I was an Orc intruder in your house, and now you insist I acknowledge we are married?!"

Her voice grew shrieky. She stepped forward, and her hands frantically flailed in the air. Her hair had unbraided earlier and was now scattered on the shoulders. She looked… fierce, like the Firebird from the old legends.

"I want my husband back! My Thorin!" she suddenly shouted into his face. "You look at me with so much… revulsion! It is killing me! I can't stand it!"

She whirred and hid her face in her hands. He saw her shoulders shake, but no sound came.

Thorin didn't know what to say or to do - and all that came to mind was to make a hasty retreat. And yet he didn't move an inch.


	10. By the Book

**A/N: It's a double update today. Don't miss the second chapter. Reviews for both chapters are highly appreciated ;)**

* * *

She exhaled sharply, her shoulders jumping up, and he saw her lower her hands, balled in tight fists.

"And of course here you are, standing and glaring at my back, too irritated to say anything, but too stubborn to leave."

That was an astute observation - and an irksome one.

"Does _he_ enjoy your dissecting his every thought and move?" Thorin sneered.

She whipped her head. He saw the tense expression - but then a small smile touched her lips.

"No, not particularly," she answered. "I assume he just had gotten used to it. It's a price for having chosen an unfitting wife."

"I doubt that he… That anyone considers you an unfitting wife," Thorin muttered; and her smile grew wider.

"Oh, don't be coy now. Of course you do." She shook her head. "You're forgetting I've been married to you for over a dozen years. I can bet my best surgical tools you've been asking yourself how it was possible that a woman of Men, with no family tree and any valuable skill was on the throne of Erebor. And I bet there was a nickname. Or at least a constant unflattering comparison."

He clenched his teeth, in acute unease.

"What was it, Thorin?" she drew out. "A cold fish? A twig? A sickly Elfling?"

There was no malice in her jibing; if anything she looked… sad. Thorin had never been good at distinguishing subtle shades of emotions - and had never been inclined to spend time on the pursuit.

"Oh don't worry, I am not offended. I have heard it all. It took me years to be accepted by our people, including the servants in the household." She walked to the desk and picked up her cup. She didn't drink, just looked down into the tea. "At least I'd always felt I had your support… but what good does it make to think of it now?" she finished quietly. "Either you will remember, or… we'll have to learn to avoid each other more skillfully."

"I was not the one avoiding my spouse," Thorin felt he needed to remind her.

"Perhaps, you should start," she threw back at him and took a sip of tea. "I'm certain all this scowling and stormy frowning isn't good for you. Since I repel you so much..."

"You don't repel me!" Thorin snapped. He wasn't going to interrupt her, but her odd listless tone made him see red. "I admit it took some time getting used to the whole idea of a wife from Men, but..."

He froze, his mouth open. But what? What was he to say? That he saw that she was a good wife? A good Queen? That it was obvious that his people loved and cherished and respected her? That his household ran smoothly in her hands? That he could see in his papers and letters that his Kingdom obviously benefitted from her diplomacy, when it came to the alliances with the Elves and the Men?

And that he was starting to see why he, the Thorin she knew, would marry her? And that how curious he felt, how exciting her hints and jesting intimations now felt - now that he'd had just a bit of taste?

It wasn't possible but it felt that he still could taste the kiss on his lips.

"But you never change you decisions," she finished his sentence, and gave out a small bitter laugh. "So you will now accept that you're stuck with me, and we should… make the best of it."

He stared at her.

"I'm tired, Thorin," she said quietly. "I haven't eaten all day, and… you don't know it but hunger and exhaustion affect me. I can't think straight. So, we could perhaps postpone this discussion."

She indeed looked wan; so he nodded, said his goodbyes, and left for the bedchamber. He didn't have any appetite - or perhaps, yet another dinner in an empty, dead silent room was just not something he was up for - so he just went to sleep.

* * *

A week passed in quite the same way; and then finally the inventory in the infirmary was over. Thorin made sure to be discreet and lead Brori into a conversation about it without the secretary guessing that Thorin was waiting for it.

He then visited the Erebor library, and found a volume of _Shahnel Bakhan._ He studied the book. It was thick and unnecessarily wordy, but he decided to limit his reading to the relevant chapters.

Some of the details in the book were confusing - and some were so obviously outdated that it took him two days of careful planning and sorting through chapters to conjure a plan.

He then had to employ the secretary to arrange the small details - and most important somehow to avoid choking the ridiculously lively Dwarf who seemed disproportionately excited about the tasks placed on him.

And then the evening came.

She came into the parlour, in the same fern green dress he knew she wore in the infirmary when stocking cupboards, with a white apron over it.

"Thorin, Brori told me you wished to..." she stopped mid-sentence and gawked at the table laid in the middle of the room. "What is this?"

"Dinner. _Zudramenkhem_ to be precise," he answered. " _The Dinner of Three Plates._ I know it is to take place when a couple just starts their wedded life; but in a sense that is where we are."

Her eyes ran the dishes; and then she slowly looked up at him.

The pride and the tentative excitement he was feeling were gone an instant later - when she burst into laughter. This time there was cold venomous note to her frolics.

"Mahal help me, did you look it up in the book, in _Shahnel Bakhan_?!" she gasped out between more and more roaring.

Suddenly, what he had considered a sound and inventive plan was looking less and less sound - and not at all inventive since she'd just seen right through it.

"What an absurd idea!" she exclaimed. "Half of these dishes are inedible; the rest are greasy and heavy! And the point of eating the mushrooms, and the pine nuts, and the pumpkin seeds is to stimulate the libido in the couple..."

And then she stopped.

Thorin was starting to feel more and more disconcerted.

"Are you… Were you trying to… Mahal forbid, _seduce_ me?" she drew out in disbelief. And the she exclaimed, before he opened his mouth, "No, no, don't answer this! That was a mad idea. The sheer possibility of the words 'Thorin Oakenshield' and 'seduce' used in the same sentence is something out of the realm of fairy tales!"

She pushed her hands into her hair and pulled at the bright orange springs.

"Goodness me, what a pandemonium," she said, and jerked at her hair couple more times. "I'm sure you had some reason to assume it would be a favourable proceeding..."

"You said we should make the best of our current situation," he muttered, losing the rest of his confidence.

With doubt always came anger - so he clenched his teeth and asked himself why he had even thought that the woman was worth any of the efforts.

"Have I?" she asked in a suddenly sincere voice.

He looked up and saw her widened eyes.

"It doesn't sound like something I'd say, because…" she trailed away.

Thorin saw red.

"Because what? Why would you not say that?" he barked and took a step towards her. She immediately jerked her chin up defiantly.

"Because I don't think any good _can_ come out of it."

"And why is that? Am I not worthy of you now? Not good enough? Not a war hero? Not the King you married?" he roared.

He couldn't understand why the thought hurt so much.

"How dare you?!" she screamed back, looking just as enraged as he felt. "None of this matters to me! Neither your titles, nor your wealth!"

"What then? Why did you marry me? Him! Why did you marry him?!"

"Because I was in love with him!"

He saw tears burst out of her eyes, but her face was glowing with the same fury.

"I loved him, and now he is gone!"

"We are the same man! He… I am here," Thorin said; and suddenly his anger deflated.

And so it seemed had hers. Her lips quivered.

"You look at me like at a stranger," she said. Tears drew streaks down her cheeks.

"You aren't looking at me at all," he answered quietly.

"I do, but all I see..." She swallowed, and he saw her throat move. "All I see is the familiar face and..."

"My memory might never return," he said; and her red mouth twisted in a painful grimace.

"Don't say it," she whispered. "I can't lose… my husband."

"I _am_ your husband," he said again.

"It is not a title, Thorin. It is an… occupation." She smiled through tears. "And it took us years to become good at it."

"You mean, it took _me_ years," he grumbled; and she softly touched his sleeve on the upper arm.

Their eyes met; and he saw faint mischievous light in her eyes.

"Believe me, I also haven't always been the exemplar wife I am right now."

A warm, somewhat apologetic smile trembled in the corners of her lips.

"Hard to believe," he grumbled; and she laughed shakily.

She stepped back from him, and looked under her feet.

"Thorin, I have to ask… was this dinner… was it about… well, marital duties?" she asked, and he saw her cheeks flush with faint blush.

Thorin's spine grew rigid like a languet of a battle axe.


	11. Apology

**A/N: It's a double update today. Don't miss the previous chapter! Cheers! xx**

* * *

She watched his face, and then gasped.

"It was, wasn't it? You've felt the hunger, and you thought… Mahal help me, I can't even think of what you possibly have assumed… That we would have the traditional dinner, and then… repose?"

She was staring at him, shock splashing in her eyes. If Thorin had been prone to fidgeting, he'd have shifted awkwardly. Instead, he just kept his face unreadable.

"Did you honestly think that that was how it was between a man and wife?" she exclaimed. "Like in that cursed book? Something about the man coming to his wife's halls for satisfaction?"

That was exactly what the book said - but it sounded so much more logical when he read it in the silence of the library. As opposed to her saying it into his face, with the most astounded expression.

"And did you… is that what you think of me? That I would lie with you? For all intents and purposes, we have met a fortnight ago!"

Thorin rejoiced. Finally, there was a flaw in her argument.

"But _you_ have not met me a fortnight ago," he pointed out. "We have been married for more than a dozen years, just as you'd said, and..."

"I don't know you!" she interrupted in a shrieky voice. "I do not know the man I'm looking at! And I would never… It has never been about lust for me, but neither has it been about duty. I loved you! And we… what we had was… beautiful..."

He could see her chest rise in short sharp breaths.

"Mahal help me, you are even less of the Thorin I knew that I had imagined."

She shook her head.

"I will take my leave now," she said darkly. "I… I am not sure what I think of this. I just need… to be alone right now."

She turned away and left the room.

Thorin looked around the table in search of something to hurl into a wall - and then just stomped into the bedchamber smashing the door after him.

* * *

The worst was that they kept meeting: in the children's halls; during the cursed examination; twice she came to his study to discuss the correspondence.

Her manners around him were perfectly civilised; but as unobservant as he was - and knew he was - he couldn't help but notice how far she always sat from him, and how she would not meet his eyes.

Thorin would tell himself to stop being a dimwit and focus on getting used to his new life. And then she would lean closer, to pick up a quill out of an ink bottle - and a curl would fall out of her do; and her neck and her ear would be close; and he would catch the scent of lilacs…

… and he wouldn't be able to take a full breath in.

That was how it turned out yearning for a woman felt. Like a crushing weight pressing on his chest.

He had had urges before, or the 'hunger' as she'd called it during the catastrophic evening. Of course he did. He wasn't that old. But it had always been one of the things he knew had not mattered. His duty, his crown, his people - they were on his mind at all times. And when his body betrayed him, like it did with any man, he would just… address his needs.

And then one day he woke up on the sheets that smelled of lilacs; and he felt the familiar stirring. And he just reached and... solved the problem. And then he opened his eyes and stared at the canopy above his head. It didn't feel the same; it didn't feel… enough _._

The next time while his body moved, his mind suddenly was flooded with the images of the woman. And it still wasn't enough.

And then she was playing with their youngest on the floor, her skirts scattered on the rug; and she laughed. He only saw her smile and heard her laughter in the children's halls. Her cheeks would grow rosy, and her eyes shone. And he wondered what her skin tasted like. And then he remembered the jibe of hers, from one of the first days. _If you suddenly reversed to the libidinous flirtatious Thorin I knew and started licking my neck…_

And once they were working on a trade registry in his study, and she sipped her tea, and all he could think of was how warm and soft her lips had felt against his when she'd put up that show in front of her maid.

Except it had been a show. And he still wasn't 'the Thorin she knew.'

The healers made him read his old letters. He led conversation with Balin about the Quest for Erebor. He read the journal written by Ori, and studied the illustrations. He was served the food that was supposed to stimulate his memory. He slept in the same bed, and he wore his old clothes.

He would get occasional flashes of memory: sometimes an event, usually quite a mundane one; sometimes some vague feeling, like cold, or pain. He had dreams, also mostly of some physical discomfort - being wounded and recovering; or being caught in an icy cold storm. But none of it could count as him remembering his former life.

He was still the same Thorin who opened his eyes in the unfamiliar room two moons ago.

And that wasn't the man she desired.

* * *

By the end of the second moon he had settled into his daily routine. The talks with Balin helped him to find his footing in most social interactions. He had learnt the names of the servants and courtiers. He had grown comfortable to meet his former companions and his kin. He had attended the Feast of the Harvest, and two weddings.

She accompanied him to all events - and he finally found out that she could dress the part. Her garments were still rather demure, much less opulent than those of the Dwarven dames - but they somehow suit her. She also had an eye for jewellery; and paired it skillfully with her formal dresses. She looked elegant and regal, without looking overdressed.

And then one evening a knock came into his study door. He allowed a visitor entrance, without lifting his eyes off the letter he was drafting.

"Thorin," her voice called him softly; and his eyes flew up. "May I have a few minutes of your time?"

There was some sort of uncharacteristic timidness in her face. He invited her to sit, and then retook his seat across the desk.

"Thorin, I have been thinking… and bear with me, please." She threw him a warning look; and he waited for her to continue. "Well, here it goes," she muttered and inhaled deeply. "Are you… unhappy?"

"Pardon?"

He saw her long fingers play with a pearl that hung from a thin silver chain around her neck.

"Are you… unhappy? We do not talk, you and I. And I was wondering… if you are content. You are, of course, handling all your responsibilities, and your health is excellent. But when it comes to the matters of emotions, I feel you wouldn't be able to tell if you were… ailing. If, say, you felt… dispirited." She gave him a pointed look.

Her nose twitched, and he felt amusement rise in him.

"I'm afraid, I don't quite understand."

He did. He just had a sudden mischievous urge to make her continue squirming and mumbling.

She didn't disappoint. Her cheeks were starting to flame, and she shifted her gaze between him and the tapestry behind him. To think of it, the blush was now spreading lower, down her long neck, and into the cut of her simple home dress.

"Well, you see… Our mind and our heart could be ailing too, and sometimes we do not notice the… symptoms. But you have gone through quite a shock, only two months ago; and..."

She continued in the same manner for a few more seconds, and then her voice grew quieter and quieter.

"I am content, Wren," he said.

"Are you?" She as much as squinted suspiciously; and he chuckled. "Because you aren't exactly the most perceptive man when it comes to feelings, yours or otherwise..."

"You wound me," he jested - but she didn't laugh.

"Have I?" she asked in a strained voice; and he raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Have you what?"

"Have I… wounded you?" The pearl on the chain twirled again. She drew a shuddered breath in. "Last we spoke… I was cruel. I was in pain, and I lashed out. I was unfair." Her teeth worried the bottom lip. "I regret it. The things I said..."

She lifted pained gaze at him.

"You see, it was easier to be angry with you, to focus on how horrible the thought of losing my husband was, so that I didn't have to see that you were in pain as well. And that you have lost something too." She sighed. "I have always thought I was a sympathetic person, that I could share people's grievances and support them - but when you needed me, I let you down. And I am so very sorry."

"I have made quite a mess out of it as well," he said softly.

She shook her head.

"I let you down. I should have been there for you. But I just ran and hid, because… I just couldn't stand it - seeing myself through your eyes. I have been spoilt by the years of your approval and your… admiration." She laughed awkwardly. "It's been flattering to have you look at me… as if I hung the moon. And I just couldn't face you when you looked at me like… I didn't deserve to be here."

He wasn't sure what to say - except, "Apology accepted."

She chewed her bottom lip some more.

"Perhaps, you had been right, all those weeks ago… Perhaps, we should spend more time together," she offered gingerly.

"To help me remember?" he asked.

"Well, or at least… to make us both feel less… lonely." The turn-up nose twitched again. "Not that I'm saying you're lonely. But we _are_ married, and even if your memory never comes back, we still have years ahead of us. Time will fly faster if we aren't trying to avoid meeting in passages." She gave out another awkward little laugh.

"I think it is reasonable. Make the best of the situation, aye?"

He meant it as a small jab - but she cringed, and he could see she was upset.

"Well, I'll leave you to your papers," she mumbled, and started rising.

"Wren, please, wait."

He stepped to her from around the desk. She stood, her head lowered. He had nothing to say really. Except she came to him, and she apologised, and made an effort; and he wasn't going to waste a chance.

"Where do you sleep these days? Surely, not on the same divan," he blurted out.

He was immediately worried she'd misunderstand - but she laughed softly.

"I appreciate your concern, Thorin. And no, I have asked Brori to move a cot into my parlour. It is quite comfortable."

They stood very close to each other. And he suddenly thought of lifting his hand and reaching for her - when her narrow hand flew up and she brushed the tips of her fingers to the placket of his tunic.

"That is so much like you," she whispered.

"What is?" he whispered back.

"To ask about the small things, something mundane… when you are trying to show you care."

"I care," he whispered even quieter.

Her saw the dilated pupils of her slanted, cat-like eyes - and then she leaned in and her breath brushed at his lips. She stopped, just a hairbreadth away - and he covered the distance.

The kiss of all those weeks ago felt frantic, greedy - or he just was inexperienced and hadn't noticed the pretense.

She shied away right away now; and he could see her eyelashes flutter nervously. He lifted his hand, to cup her face.

"No," she breathed out; and he stopped.

His heart beat painfully.

"Please, I need to… think about this," she whispered.

He nodded - because what else could he do?

"Thank you," she said quickly; and dashed to the door.

He stood alone in the room, his hand lifted mid-air. The tips of his fingers tingled.


	12. Kerfuffle

And then a letter came from the Elvenking Thranduil, who was requesting an audience with 'Lady Filegethiel,' the Queen of Erebor. She brought it to Thorin's study and waited while he read.

"What is this all about?" Thorin asked, lifting his eyes at her.

"Probably, some scientific pursuit. We share academic interests," she answered offhandedly. "But don't you understand? If he sees you, he will know immediately you are… affected. He has the gift of the insight."

"Well, if Erebor thought no less of me since my injury, I don't see how the Elf's _insight_ matters."

He handed the letter back to her.

It had been three days since their conversation - and their kiss. So far no changes had taken place - and he was just going to inquire whether she had given it a thought, when he saw how uneasy she was.

"What is it, Wren?"

"Perhaps, a visit from King Thranduil isn't exactly the best idea at the moment," she muttered. "The two of you have… differences. And it has become quite a habit of you two to try to… get a rise out of each other."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, and she sighed.

"It is never malicious or inappropriate… but he tends to try to make you… jealous," she said and fidgeted with the letter. "Mahal help me, it has never been discussed, and I feel rather ridiculous putting it into words..."

"Jealous how?" Thorin asked watching her pale long fingers dance.

"Please, don't make me elaborate," she said; and he frowned. "Oh for Maiar's sake! It is not uncommon for him to hint that I have more… shared interests with him than you."

"So, he is trying to make me jealous… of you?"

Thorin was starting to understand - and getting increasingly more irked.

"Aye," she said and then threw the letter on his desk and sat heavily in the chair near it. "We indeed have a lot to discuss when he visits. I, in my turn, travel to his halls, to share the knowledge of the healing herbs. His library has more volumes dedicated to warfare and geography, but nonetheless there are books of interest for me there as well."

"So he comes to _my_ house and… what? Flirts with _my_ wife?"

It was not that Thorin had not heard and understood what Balin and others were telling him about King Thranduil's involvement into the Battle of the Five Armies - but it didn't quite matter at the moment. All the old grievances resurfaced - and apparently, there were new ones to add.

"Mahal forbid, King Thranduil doesn't flirt, Thorin," she said with reproach. "He goads you, but you hardly ever acknowledge any of it. While in turn, you tend to flaunt… the passionate nature of our marriage."

Her words shook him out of his dark thoughts, and he threw her an amused look. She once again gave out an exasperated sigh.

"They say that Elves only ever are intimate with their spouses when a child is to be conceived. And that they are just not..." she started, and then shook her head. "In actuality I do not know what an Elven marriage is like; and I hardly have any interest in it. But it seems to amuse you to make double-entendres and to throw me looks; and then once..." Her blush had gained a rather flaming tone by then, and she cleared her throat. "That really is not important."

"On the contrary, it seems to be very important," Thorin drew out. "Whatever had I done to flaunt my marriage in front of King Thranduil?"

"You… We were visiting; and it was before I was expecting Dain. And we… got caught." Her cheeks looked as hot as iron in a bloomery.

"Caught..." Thorin stretched the word, savouring her flustered state. "Doing what?"

She huffed in irritation and brushed off a curl from her face. He followed the bobbing of a copper lock with his eyes.

"Going back to the letter," she said; and he chuckled. "Please, Thorin, I just do not wish any… kerfuffles."

"Oh, there have been _kerfuffles_?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes.

He hadn't seen the gesture since the early days after his injury - but unlike that time, he found her little quirk… charming.

"So, we are allowing the visit then?" she grumbled; and started rising.

He jumped to his feet.

"It is quite up to you, Wren," he said nonchalantly. "I'll trust your judgement."

She gave him a disbelieving sardonic look.

"As long as it's just your shared interest in twigs and leaves he'll be flaunting, I'm sure I can refrain from a… kerfuffle," he said cheekily.

She rolled her eyes again - and he remembered that three days earlier they had kissed and that they still hadn't discussed it.

"You have this look," she said quietly.

"What look?" he asked, his thoughts still preoccupied by the kiss - and by how red her lips were.

"As if you want to… kiss me."

He quickly met her eyes. There was a guarded expression in them, and her lips were pursed.

"I do want to kiss you," he answered.

Truth was always the easiest way out of an awkward situation, he found.

"You may," she said quietly.

He took two steps, turning around the corner of his desk, and stopped in front of her. She was an inch shorter than him, very small for a woman from Men, as he now knew.

He leaned ahead, still uncertain how to proceed. Her eyes were wide open, intent on his face. Last time he could see what he assumed was excitement on her face. Not this time.

But she did say he could!

He softly placed his hand on her cheek, cupping her jaw, and then brushed his thumb to the corner of her lips. They fascinated him - soft, warm, so very bright, as if dusted with red jasper powder. The bottom one was full, while the top one was curved, the corners curled upwards.

He kissed her - and his blood boiled. He'd think it odd that his body reacted so fast - if he could think at all. He tried to remember what she'd done when she'd kissed him, to imitate her movements. And then he realised that she wasn't moving now.

He shied away and looked into her face.

"What… is it?" His voice was embarrassingly breaking.

"I just feel..." she started, and then shook her head. "It matters not. Just some silly sensitivities of mine."

She lowered her gaze; and he frowned. Why wasn't she telling him? Was it because she didn't trust him? Did she share those 'silly sensitivities' with the 'other him?'

"Well what is it?" he asked in a much sharper tone that he intended.

"I don't want to burden you," she said.

He vaguely remembered she'd said something of the sort when giving him the reason why they shouldn't share meals. He was apparently once again being deemed unreliable and politely dismissed.

"Please, do," he said in a low unpleasant voice. "What have I done wrong this time?"

She gawked at him, astonishment in her face.

"You haven't… haven't done anything wrong. Why would you think that?"

"Well, what then? You give me permission to kiss you, but the reception is rather cold." He was growing more and more irked. "And you don't wish to 'burden' me with explanations, which leads me to believe that I am once again considered unworthy."

"No, Thorin, it is nothing of the kind..." she muttered.

"Would you have shared your preoccupations with your _real_ husband?" he sneered.

"No, because I wouldn't have to," she snapped back. "Because that is what bothers me!"

"What?"

"That you aren't… my real husband."

He inhaled sharply. Here it was again - the crushing pressure into his chest, like a boulder on his sternum.

"I'm sorry," she recoiled from her words - and probably from the expression on his face.

He wouldn't be able to guess what his face showed, since he wasn't sure what he felt.

"You _are_ , Thorin. You are my husband. It just feels like… you are a different person. And that I am… betraying what we'd had. It's so absurd, I know." She cringed. "That's why I didn't want to talk about it. It's all so very convoluted, and..."

"No, no, it makes perfect sense," he said.

"It does?" She looked even more surprised now.

"Of course," he gritted through his teeth. "You fell in love with the King Under the Mountain, the Dwarf who'd achieved everything he had ever dreamt of; and who was apparently suave and confident enough to flaunt your libidinous marriage in front of the pointy eared bastard! And now you're stuck with a man who has to use the four century old book to tell you he finds you alluring! And make a fool out of himself in the process!"

By the end of his speech he was roaring, and she took a small step away from him.

"I'm sure if _he_ was here, he'd say the same thing I'm going to say to you now," he snarled, "that you need to understand what it is that you want."

He stomped around her and out of his study.


	13. First Dinner

Thorin had been staring at his reflection for a few minutes by now. He had Brori help him with the attire for dinner; his hair was washed and brushed, ceremonial braids added to it. Thorin straightened the dark blue doublet with silver brocade and exhaled sharply. He wasn't used to the uncomfortable churning of his stomach.

In a few minutes he was expected to come to a small dining room in the Lower Halls and share his evening meal with the Elvenking and the Queen of Erebor. The last Thorin remembered of Thranduil was the memories of the Fall of Erebor. The letters they had exchanged in the last two months were just diplomatic correspondence. Thorin had managed to separate his personal feelings from the state matters, since everyone around him insisted on treating the Elf as their ally. Sitting across a dinner table from him was a completely different matter.

And of course there was also the question of Thorin's wife. And then Thorin decided that getting through a dinner with the wood wimp was an ordeal enough, and he could think of the nonsensical woman later.

A knock and a quiet "May I?" came from the door; and he considered sending her away.

"Come in," he called, without turning; and she entered.

The dress on her was of the same blue, the brocade was golden; and he saw the heavy ruby necklace of his Mother lying in the cut. Her hair, pinned and decorated with gems, shone in the light of the candles. She came up to him, and he watched her slow approach in the mirror.

"Thorin, I..."

She paused; and her eyes ran his reflection.

"I've always liked this doublet," she muttered, clearly changing her mind what to say.

Thorin turned around, and then cupped her nape, under the silky do; and pulled her in. She gasped, but he decided that thinking and analysing at the moment would be the worst possible course. He greedily caught her mouth, and enjoyed her lips. An instant later she grabbed the collar of the doublet, and pulled him closer. And then she arched into him; and he felt her shift her weight, her knee and the opulent skirts pressed into his leg.

"Thorin..."

He ignored her, since it didn't sound like she disapproved of what was transpiring.

He didn't want to talk. She came in, and her skin glowed in the white lace and the blue velvet; and she looked at him with desire in her eyes. He didn't want to think either! He just wanted… her.

He'd let go if she tried to move away - but she kissed him, and her hands were roaming his shoulders; and then she moaned when his tongue ran her upper lip. She softly opened her mouth, and he tasted and savoured. She was swift and strong and demanding - and he let her lead, and teach him.

And then she pulled back, and he felt his body follow her, to catch more of the kiss, almost pleading for more - and then he saw she was watching him with some sort of amused disbelief.

"It's so odd… You are… so..." She smiled at him.

"What?" he asked sharply. "I am what?"

"Grumpy." She suddenly giggled, and placed a quick small kiss on his nose. His eyebrows jumped up in shock. "That's what you are. A grumpy grump."

She then turned to the mirror, quickly fixed her hair, and headed out of the room.

By the door she looked at him over her shoulder, and gave him a mischievous glance from the corner of her eye.

"And a damn good kisser."

The door closed behind her, and he continued staring at it.

* * *

The dinner had the least promising beginning one could expect from it. Thorin came into the room and saw his wife: she was standing by the fireplace, lit from behind, as if a cloud of flames surrounding her head. The Elvenking Thranduil stood near her - too near to Thorin's taste - half-bent, looming over her, his pale face so very close. They seem to be absorbed in a conversation; and then she twitched and winced away from the Elf. Her face seemed guilty.

The Elf slowly turned to Thorin, straightening to his full length.

"King Thorin Oakenshield," he drew out, and cocked his head to the side.

Thorin narrowed his eyes.

"I regret finding your household in… distress," the Elf continued in the same obnoxious tone.

"I am joyous to announce you're mistaken, King Thranduil, son Oropher," Thorin gritted through his teeth. "My kin are at peace."

The tilt of the Elf's head grew sharper.

"And yet Lady Filegethiel seems so very perturbed."

Thorin caught the small movement from the corner of his eyes. His wife had awkwardly shifted; and he noticed how tightly she was clutching a goblet in her hands.

"I have encouraged her to share her grievances with me," the Elf droned on. "And her resistance and denial tell me it is a matter of… intimate nature."

'Shouldn't it tell you it's none of your business?' Thorin thought of barking.

He exhaled noisily, and glared at the two people in front of him. He surely had expected to last longer - but the fake politeness and ambiguity had been gritting on his nerves. And he hadn't anticipated the Elf to start on his 'goading,' which Thorin's wife had mentioned, so very early in the conversation.

And of course her other words came back to his mind, and he blurted out, "I assure you Lady Filegethiel isn't agitated. She's very much content... and _satisfied_ in her life."

He regretted the words immediately. Firstly, the cursed pale imp had managed to pull him into a dispute like a hot-headed youngling! Secondly, Thorin's answer could hardly be considered well-worded or elegant. He sounded like a tot trying to come up with a snappy retort! The next thing he'd do would stomp his feet and yell, ' _You_ are a matter of intimate nature!'

"Oh good grievance, this is even worse than I expected!" the woman exclaimed.

Thorin tensed, quickly calculating possible ways out of this predicament, when she suddenly stepped to him, picked up his arm, and wrapped both hers around it. He felt her press into his side.

"You will have to forgive my husband, my lord," she said in a low voice. "He hadn't had much sleep last night; and the lack of rest is affecting his manners and his mood. Let us not behave like grumpy children; and enjoy the food."

She pulled at Thorin's arm and then whispered in his ear, "My darling, we need to be less exuberant on the nights before official visits. You are simply impossible." Her tone was flirty, and her breath tickled his ear.

And then Thorin remembered how much sharper the hearing of an Elf would be - and her words had sounded exactly like 'flaunting one's libidinous marriage.' He looked at her sideway, and she leaned in and placed a feather-like kiss on his cheek.

She led him to the table, and he obediently followed. They sat on one end, facing the King, who lavishly reclined on a low settee. Clearly, the servants had served these meals many times before. The dishes and the recipes had been chosen to appropriately accommodate their guest's appetite.

After the first calamity, the conversation was strained - but civilised. Thorin had always despised small talk; but thankfully, the Elf didn't wish to make the runes dance either. The trade and the renovations of the dam on Forest River were a comfortable topics for discussion, which all three of them had something to contribute to, and were well versed in.

Dishes followed dishes; more and more wine was brought in. Thorin drank little, too preoccupied with saying and doing nothing wrong - and keeping his temper under control. She had been right. The Elvenking was infuriating: mentioning his shared pursuits with the Queen as much as possible, such as the import of medicinal herbs from his woods to Erebor and Dale; and so on. Following what she'd told him before, Thorin didn't acknowledge any of the Elf's quips.

"You seem… overtaxed tonight, Thorin, son of Thrain," the Elvenking drew out after three hours of playing on Thorin's nerves like on a harp's strings. "I am yet to receive a rebuke I'm so accustomed to. Perhaps, we should repose and continue our conversation at tomorrow's dinner."

Thorin couldn't help but throw a side look at his wife. He was indeed taxed by the palaver - but the last thing he wanted was to make a faux pas now, at the end of the evening.

She gave him a small warm smile.

"Perhaps, Lord Thranduil is right, my dear," she said to him softly. "I can only say for myself, but the bed seems to call for me."

Was Thorin the only one who heard the suggestive note to her murmur?

All three of them rose; she looped her arm through Thorin's; and after long preposterous goodbyes everyone was finally escorted to their rooms.

And only when the door closed behind her, had he realised that they were in the bedchamber. Together. Alone.


	14. Bottoms Up!

**Author's Note:**

 **Please, let me know in your reviews whether you'd like this story to actually go into smutty details. I see the couple people who reviewed the previous chapter were rooting for it :P Currently the story is rated T, and I'm not entirely sure whether I should bump the rating up and set my usual MATURE writing Muse loose :P You know me, I can write a smutty multi-chapter describing one night *cough cough Thorin's First Night* but I can stick to feeeeeeeeels and skip the graphic details, if that's the readers' wish.**

 **Cheers! XX**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

"Well, this evening..." Thorin started, but the words 'could have gone better' stuck in his throat.

The woman was undressing. At least so it looked to him. First she unclasped the necklace. To do so she lifted her hands, and the wide undersleeves fell, baring her slender pale arms. She then craned her neck; and finally his Mother's rubies lay on the vanity. She sighed, in relief - and started pulling pins out of her hairdo. The heavy silken strands immediately slithered out, pouring onto her shoulders like coils of coppered gold. She then pushed her splayed hands into the locks, ruffled, and moaned.

"Mahal help me, how I tire of all these formal dinners, and dresses, and..."

She made a 'pfft' noise, he was already familiar with; and sat on the upholstered lid of a large chest by the wall.

"What were you saying?" she asked, and looked at him.

"Um..." Thorin said.

He just couldn't be more articulate! She was pulling pins out of her dress! On the left side of the front of her garment, over the ribs! She was also making small displeased noises, which sounded like moans as well.

"What are you doing?" Thorin rasped out, and cringed, annoyed by his own breaking voice.

"I will just..." She sounded choked as well, but just because she was focused on her work. "I'll just open the placard and loosen the bodice. You have to forgive me, but I am having trouble… breathing..."

Finally, a little pile of pins grew on the seat near her skirts; and indeed there was a placard. She opened it and pulled at the silk ribbons laced through two sides of some sort of an uncomfortable contraption around her middle.

"Is that why you wear those plain dresses?" Thorin couldn't tear his eyes off what he assumed was a corset.

"The attires of Men, especially Men of the South are so much simpler. I grew up in the apron dresses. This..." She gestured around her chest. "I wear them to honour our people, but Mahal be merciful, I'd rather be plain than suffocated."

Thorin shook his head. The question of a woman's garments never interested him - and he lacked knowledge. Who knew women had to withstand such tortures?

She them picked up her skirts, pulled them up; and he saw the delicate ankles in white stockings. He had seen quite a lot of her physique previously - but it had been before the said physique had started exciting him. Thorin swallowed.

She toed off her shoes and rubbed one tiny foot to another.

"I apologise," she repeated. "But you'll have to forgive me. I'm in pain."

She gave out a small chuckle and ruffled her hair again.

"So, you were saying," she encouraged him.

At that moment Thorin had to admit the evening with the Elvenking was the last thing on his mind. The half-dressed woman - who had kissed him just a few hours ago - was becoming an increasingly pressing matter. Thorin once again swallowed a knot in his throat.

"Thorin?"

Thorin always had the same answer to feeling uncertain, to not knowing what to say and what to do, to feeling inadequate - the answer was anger. It was her fault he was flustered! She was behaving inappropriately! And she had been… confusing him! She would kiss him and then renegade! She would be cold, and then passionate, and then, just like at the moment she'd be nonchalant, as if she didn't know she was affecting him! That was it! She was pretending! She knew the reaction she was stirring in him - and she just continued sitting, and dangling her feet, and running her fingers through her hair!

"I don't see what is here to discuss," he gritted through clenched teeth. "I think I will repose now..."

He trailed away, hinting it was time for her to go back to her study.

She cocked her head, in the familiar bird-like gesture - except unlike before all he could think of was the long pale neck, and a blue vein beating on it.

"Oh I see," she said, and jumped off the chest onto her feet. "And I think it is time for 'juniper water.'"

She marched by him and opened a door of a small cabinet. There was a large, dark green bottle there, and two glasses.

Thorin was familiar with 'juniper water.' In actuality, the drink had always been his favourite, for the sharp flavour and the bite. It was hard to acquire in the North; and he had always tried to savour and stretch the pleasure if ever a bottle had come to his possession in his travels.

She generously poured the clear fragrant liquid into the glasses and pushed one towards him.

"I'm not in the mood for a… celebration," he jeered; and she barked a joyless laugh.

"Drink, Thorin. You're clenching your teeth so much I'm worried we'll have to call a barber to tend to a broken molar."

He glared at her. She then took a generous sip - he watched her throat move - and exhaled with an open mouth.

"I've gotten better with years, husband of mine; but if you don't want to be left behind in the realm of sobriety, I suggest you empty this one. Bottoms up!"

She shook the other glass in front of his nose - and he picked it up and toppled the drink into his throat.

"Perfect." She nodded to her own thoughts. "And while you're partaking the second one, I'll rid myself of this tool of torment."

She poured him another drink; and while he sipped, she picked up the shoulders of her dress, pushed them down, and wiggled out of the dress. It fell heavily around her feet; and she stepped out of it, holding the hem of her long undertunic daintily with two fingers.

Thorin poured the third drink by himself and sent it the same way as the first two.

She then picked up the dress and threw it on a bench. And then she sat on the floor, her back to the footboard, her glass and the bottle in her left hand. She patted the right hand to the carpet near her.

"Sit, Thorin."

He flopped near her. The brew hadn't started affecting him yet - but he pretended to himself that it did.

She poured another half a glass for him - and about an eighth for herself. They sat for a few minutes, drinking in silence.

And then he asked the question that had been on his mind since their conversation about the Elvenking.

"Why didn't you marry an Elf?"

She looked at him sideways. Her cheeks were warming up, and the gentle blush was spilling down the long neck and down into the cut of the white undertunic.

"There haven't been any offers," she answered cheekily, but then shook her head and looked into her glass. "Speaking frankly, I hadn't expected to marry either, just like you."

"Why?"

"Because the way it works is that people marry for looks, or for certain traits and qualities, such as useful skills or family or title. And I never had either." She twirled the liquid in her glass, holding the top of it with her thumb and her middle finger. "Obviously, an Elf would never propose to me…"

"Why not? You have a lot in common with their kind. The walks, the herbs, the books," he kept pressing. "You always take our children out of the Mountain..."

"Mostly Dain," she answered with a small laugh. "The others have little interest in my walks and herbs."

"Even if so, wouldn't it suit you better to wed a Man then?"

She glanced at him again, and took a sip. He saw the drink wet her lips.

"Are you trying to rid yourself and your Kingdom of me?" she jested.

"I'm trying to understand," he said quietly.

"That is most commendable of you." She giggled. "Husbands rarely do. As for your question, just like I said, I had never expected to have a husband. I'm unalluring by the standards of any race. I'm stubborn, individualistic, and never thought I needed a man to tell me what to do and what to think. The only man who would want me would be the one who'd see all through it; care not what race and family I came from; and for some inexplicable reason find my odd self worthy of love." She finished the juniper water in one big gulp. "And you were that man."

Thorin followed her example. She poured more, in both their glasses.

"Perhaps, those were your successes and your losses that had made you so… open-minded."

She gave him a warm shy look.

Except they hadn't been _his_ successes and losses, he thought. _He_ wasn't the man she was talking about with so much affection in her voice.

She suddenly moved closer and pressed a quick light kiss to his cheekbone.

"What's bothering you, my heart?" she whispered.

He turned and met her eyes. They were brilliant, of the most striking colour, of the Blue Mountains lapis lazuli. He seemed to have recall them being green before; but apparently drink made the blue flood the irises, leaving only specs of glimmering gold.

"Besides the memory loss?" he grumbled; and she snorted.

"Aye, besides that."

Thorin was not accustomed to defining his… feelings; even less so to putting them into words; and even less so to sharing them with anyone. He made a vague grunt like noise, hoping she'd abandon the topic.

"Oh right, I forgot. You are still the Thorin who doesn't know how to… confer."

"Aye, I'm the unfinished work," he bit back. "You might have to wait another eighteen years till I am… complete."

"Is that what it is?" she asked, her eyebrows jumping up. She sounded sincerely astounded. "Are you feeling... lacking?"

"Am I not? That's what you keep telling me. That I'm not _yet_ the Thorin you need."

She was silent for a few moment, frowning now. He turned away from her and drank some more.

"What does it matter what _I_ need?" she said quietly. "You _are_ the Thorin whom Erebor needs. You are the King Under the Mountain. You're an excellent Father to our children, that much is already clear. And if I might never get my husband back… so be it."

He peered at her. The corners of her lips - feverishly red now - were lowered. All he could do was to reach for the bottle on the carpet near her white petticoat…

…and suddenly she moved as well and pressed into him. Her mouth on his was hot and tasted of juniper.


	15. Not So Well Oiled

"I don't understand," he breathed out into her mouth.

Her eyes slowly opened; and he saw some haze, like golden mist, clouding the irises.

"I'd expect..." Her voice hitched in her throat, and she cleared it. "I'd expect my actions to speak clearly."

"You said I'm not the one you needed," he muttered awkwardly.

"I never said you weren't the one I wanted," she answered.

He stared at her mouth. He knew now that the lips were hot, and that her breath smelled of the spices from the drink.

"I don't… understand," he repeated, hating how lost he sounded.

She blinked, and then even shook her head. Her gaze grew sharp. She then drew a deep breath in, focusing on him.

"Thorin, I..." She slightly moved away from him. He felt her hand slid off the side of his neck, where it had been pressed through their kiss. "I am… infatuated with you. With _you_ ," she intonated purposefully, and then gave him a pointed look from under a raised eyebrow.

"Just a few days ago you said that kissing me was betraying the memory of your husband."

She suddenly barked a sharp laugh.

"You make it sound as if I were a widow. You _are_ my husband. You are just… grumpier than the man I married."

There it was that word again.

"Grumpier?" he mumbled like a dimwit.

"Aye, you are grumpy. You're a grumpy grump." She laughed again, lighter and merrier now. "You glare at me. You think I don't know how much I bother you, with my odd looks, and my hints, and my… ankles!"

She snorted.

"Your ankles don't... bother me," he said. "And neither does anything in your looks."

"Oh I'm certain you're far from honest right now." She tilted her head. Her eyes were laughing. "And if you think you can hide anything from me, you underestimate my observation skills. And my skill in questioning you. I've grown quite proficient in pulling the truth out of you through the years of our marriage."

And that was when he realised that she was inebriated.

And so was him.

"You have no proof," he said haughtily; and she snorted again, louder this time.

"Oh do I not? Let me see." She feigned a pensive look. "You give me looks over. From head to toe. Down your long noble nose." She tapped the tip of his nose with her finger. "You glare at me, from my ridiculously small feet, in simple shoes, which I'm certain you loathe - to my carrot coloured, undone, mop like head."

She pinched a curl and pulled, in front of her nose, and to his face.

"Say it's not of a horrid orange colour, and you don't think I should put it away in a better fitting do, something with braids and pins and that odd tower like arrangement that is in fashion among the Khazad women these days," she drew out.

He had thought all that in the first days after he had woken up after his injury - and now he only wanted to push his hands into the copper mane and pull her closer and make the curls run between his fingers. Or see them scattered on a pillow - and crumpled sheets. He knew nothing of what transpired on any sort of sheets - but these days, he wondered.

He shook his spinning, drunkenly light head.

"Oh, 'no?'" She laughed. "Liar! You hate every little thing about me. I bet you called me a cold fish in your mind hundred times by now!"

"It was a 'frog,' and you aren't cold," he blurted out. "And the colour of your hair is considered attractive among the Khazad. And I think it beautiful. Your hair, that is; and not just the colour in general." He tangled in his words, and huffed. "And I'm starting to understand why you dress so dully. This seems very uncomfortable," he said pointing at her corset with his eyes.

The ribbon was loosened in the lacing; and she inhaled deeply. The lace in the cut fluttered. Her skin was pale and looked smooth. He wondered if it smelled of lilacs.

"A frog, huh?" she jibed, and giggled. "I should have guessed. Because the mouth is so wide, isn't it?"

"There is nothing wrong with your mouth!"

He squeezed his eyes, trying to chase away the fog in his mind. Although, perhaps, he shouldn't bother, he thought. He could just say what he thought now. What he wanted. It felt liberating!

"You have trouble hearing what is said to you, do you not?" he asked her. He was certain she would call this tone of his grumpy - but she was infuriating! "You never listen! I just said I didn't find your appearance disagreeable; and that I found your hair appealing; and..."

"And there is 'nothing wrong with my mouth!'" She laughed so hard that she swayed, and he caught her shoulder to keep her upright. "That sounded so convincing!"

He blinked. "Why would I lie to you?" he asked with sincere surprise in his voice.

"Because you're my husband. Because it's 'proper.' Because the cursed antique book told you to." She shrugged, still chuckling. "I've learnt over the years that you take any duty seriously. Right now you think it's your duty to accept that you're married to… this."

She gestured around herself. She probably hadn't been aiming for it, but it looked as if she pointed at her cleavage, and his eyes fell on the tops of her breasts.

"What you say makes no sense!" He huffed again in frustration. "If I had found you appealing once before, and married you despite how 'improper' it had been, why do you think I wouldn't notice the same merits in you now?"

She opened her mouth - but no words came out. She slowly closed it, and her face grew pensive.

"Wait… There is a flaw in your logic…" She shook a finger in front of his nose. "I'm just too inebriated to pinpoint it."

He felt triumphant.

"Or maybe there is no flaw in my logic, and you're just..." He froze. The right word just wouldn't come!

"Stroppy?" she suggested with a snort.

"Aye! That's exactly what you are! Stroppy!"

She burst into loud laughter; and he joined her. In a few seconds he could hardly breathe.

"You're a grump, and I'm stroppy!" she rasped out.

She had her right hand pressed to her stomach. His side stitched, and he clapped his right hand to his knee. She was keeling and he supported her with his left hand. She had her left hand on his shoulder.

And then he leaned in and caught her mouth; and she answered and arched into him and moaned into his lips.

"I'm keen on your laugh," he breathed out.

"Oh?" she murmured into his skin. Her lips were sliding to the corner of his mouth. "You've never mentioned."

She'd released his lips, and was kissing his neck. He didn't know whether it was an ordinary proceeding, or whether she was bold, or unfeminine. As much as he'd gathered from the book, a man was indeed to kiss and caress a woman's neck; but whether the gesture was appropriate to be initiated by a wife - he had no strength to question it. His head dropped back; and some sort of a shudder ran through his body. And then he felt her teeth scrape at his skin and the whiskers of the lower edge of his beard. He groaned, and blindly sake contact with his hand. She moved closer; and he pulled her in by her waist.

Her fingers slid into his hair; and he shivered. The mechanics of kissing seemed less daunting to him now; so perhaps it was time to explore. He pressed his palm to the side of her neck, like she'd done with him before; and then he let his mouth slide first on the side of her mouth and then onto her jaw. He trailed small kisses along a delicate line; and then he finally tasted the throat, and felt her blood pulse under the smooth sweet skin. The faint aroma of lilacs tickled his nose. The juniper water was less intoxicating that the heat and the tenderness and the hunger he felt.

And then she jerked away from him, and he saw her gulp air with her open mouth.

"Stop, Thorin..."

He gawked at her.

"How did I manage to forget how quick of a learner you are..." She shook her head, and squeezed her eyes tightly. "You're too good at this."

She pressed her hand into the footboard; and started rising.

"I need… to go to bed now," she muttered; and he felt his jaw slack.

"What?"

"I… It is getting late." She stood up and wobbled on her feet. "I will… leave now..."

"But..."

Thorin wasn't sure how one was to ask one's wife to continue the activities of intimate nature one knew very little about, including where such activities led.

She made a few unsure steps backwards, still muttering something; and then quickly turned, and as much as ran out of the bedchambers.

Thorin sat on the floor, in an unbuttoned doublet, disheveled, with all sorts of excitement having woken up in his nether regions - and alone.


	16. Hair of the Dog

The next morning he woke up feeling poorly. His head was heavy, and his stomach was turning like a stone tumbler. He pressed his face into a pillow, and groaned. It'd been ages since he last suffered from crapulence - at least in his memory. Perhaps, he was older than he wanted to admit.

A knock came to the door, and he assumed it was his breakfast.

He allowed the visitor entrance, and lifted his head expecting to see either Brori, or a maid with a tray. Instead his wife was standing in the doors, with the aforementioned tray. She was dressed in a simple home dress, her hair in one braid around her head.

"Good morning." Her tone was cautious.

"Morning," Thorin grumbled back.

"Would you mind…" She stopped and cleared her throat. "Would you like me to join you for breakfast?"

Thorin wasn't entirely sure whether he'd like that - and whether he minded. So, he nodded, climbed out of bed, and walked by her and into the bathchamber.

When he returned, washed and clothed, she was sitting on the bed, drinking tea. The tray was near her, and she picked up a small piece of seedcake and popped it into her mouth.

"You don't look well, so I thought that perhaps you'd like to stay… in bed." She still sounded uncertain; and he felt only more irritated.

He sat on the covers on the other side of the tray. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"Um, Thorin… regarding the book," she suddenly started, and he stilled, his lips on the cup of tea. She cleared her throat awkwardly and continued, without looking at him, "When you organised that dinner, I assumed you'd looked into the book."

Thorin would rather prefer that evening to never be brought up again. He made a vague noise in his throat, and drank his tea.

"Have you read all of it? Or at least all of the chapters… pertaining the subject of..." She trailed away, and waved her hand in the air.

He threw her a dark side glance, still refusing to engage in this conversation. He pretended to be preoccupied with his cheese and bread, but he could feel her gaze on his face.

"Have you read the chapter about… the moon cycles?" she finally choked out, and coughed couple times.

"Moon cycles?" he repeated; and she nodded.

He hadn't. More irritation rose. Now he was lacking in his diligence in reading an outdated unhelpful book as well, wasn't he? He exhaled noisily through his nose, and picked up his cup again.

"Oh Mahal help me," she huffed in exasperation. "I couldn't let us continue last night because… the moon cycle didn't allow me."

His eyes flew up to her face. She was giving him a pointed look - which meant absolutely nothing to him.

"Right," he drew out. "The moon didn't allow you… to continue..."

Just as her, he didn't seem to be capable to put what had transpired the night before into direct words.

"Aye, we couldn't… continue… yesterday… because I was… um… incapable… Well, not incapable, but it wouldn't have been a good idea… to..." she went on; and then she made an odd 'pfft' noise, and decisively put her cup she'd been twirling in her fingers back on the tray. "How much do you know of a woman's body, Thorin? I remember us having such conversations; but it was quite later in our association, and the talk was easy."

"I have to admit to limited knowledge," Thorin said carefully.

"What did I expect from a Khuzd?" she muttered - and then she started her _explanation_.

Thorin listened. Her talk was sober and medical - and enlightening.

"So, you see, I assumed we should perhaps abstain from intimacy yesterday," she finished. "Since to have this discussioni in the middle of caresses would be quite… inconvenient."

Thorin couldn't agree more.

"So, the 'moon days,' as you called them..." Thorin paused.

"Yes?" she encouraged.

"Was yesterday the last one?" he asked, acutely uncomfortable - and to add to his embarrassment she gave out a small snort.

She must have noticed his frown and gently patted his arm.

"Please, don't feel irked. I'm not laughing at you. I have to say you have taken it better than most men I have ever enlightened on the inner doings of their wives. It is just… I'm flattered you asked about… the possibility today."

He saw her cheeks grow a tad redder.

"But no, today is still not a fitting day."

He nodded.

"Perhaps, tomorrow," she said, and bit into her bottom lip. He found the gesture quite charming - and stimulating. "That is if… we both feel it was something worth… exploring."

She leaned to him over the tray, in a clear invitation. Their lips met, and the kiss was long and sweet. It lacked the fiery urgency from the night before; but he found it very pleasant. He wasn't prone to flourished comparisons, but these days he was finding that kissing was akin swording. Sometimes it was a genuine fight: like the night before where there was unrestrained greed, and he acted on instinct, and it was just about taking more. At the moment there was no rush; it was like sparring. It gave him a chance to polish his skill; to find out 'his opponent's weakness.'

Which would be her neck. He leaned ahead, twisted his neck, and pressed his lips to the fresh fragrant skin - and she gasped and dropped her head back. He blindly battered the bed with his hand and pushed the tray away. Something loudly clanked. She jerked, probably planning to check - but he didn't want her distracted. He needed all her attention. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed her flush again his body. She made a surprised 'ooph' noise.

And then, unlike the night before, she climbed on his lap and hugged him around his neck. The shiny green eyes were right in front of him, and her freckled nose, which he quickly kissed. He enjoyed when she had done it to him. Apparently, so did she. She squinted and gave out a small giggle.

"You're cuddlesome," she purred, and then kissed his cheekbone. "That's quite unexpected from such a… grump."

"Ahhh, here's that word again," Thorin murmured, and she giggled.

"Well, this isn't the worst appellation, is it, my heart?" she said cheekily. "You seem to be comparing me to an amphibian in your head."

"You have extracted this confession out of me under the influence! It's not admissible in court," he grumbled.

She giggled again and then gave him a feigned mournful look. "My feelings are hurt. I might need consolation."

Thorin studied her face, his mind whirring. Was she... flirting? What was he expected to do?! She tilted her head and was giving him a seemingly expectant look.

And then he remembered that she _knew_ him. She had been married to him for more than a dozen years - and he was certain that even _her_ Thorin hadn't been a sweet talk when they met. He knew not what to say - and she knew he didn't! It was a trap and it had no way out.

Except he'd desired her for quite a while, even if he hadn't been aware of it right away. And there was some sort of comforting lightness in her teasing. Again, perhaps, she was sparing him out of affection.

He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her slender frame; and he pushed her onto her back, onto the sheets. And then he kissed her, firmly, hoping he was doing it right.

She made a funny croak like noise; and then started to laugh. It came out muffled, because his mouth was coevering hers; so he moved, trailing kisses, to the delicate jaw, then onto the neck - and then throwing any doubt aside he stuck his nose into the cut of her dress. This time, the noise she made couldn't be anything but a gasp. He kissed, tasting the skin; and then nuzzled. As slim as she was, he found her breasts most pleasing. Perhaps, since he hadn't had much to compare them to. There had been dalliances when he was a youngling; nothing lewd; just some kisses and a tad of hands wandering over the clothes. The maidens were Dwarven; and most likely quite different physically; but he remembered little - and at the moment, with her body in his arm, cared even less.

At the moment he tickled the silk skin between the breasts with his noise - and then remembering her provocative remarks from all those moons again, he slid the tip of his tongue along the lacy edge of the undertunic sticking out in the cut of her dress.

He was rewarded with a small moan. It indeed felt like a reward. Thorin preferred to excel in everything he did; and this training was of the best kind.

His hand was on her side, over her ribs; and he pushed it up. There was no corset this time; just the sturdy fabric of the dress, and the gauzy linen of the undertunic - and he felt the softness of her bosom. She inhaled sharply, as much as pushing her breast into his palm.

He was losing the sobriety of a student and an explorer; there was less and less control and watching her reactions. Her gasps and sighs and her body under him were intoxicating; and his head spun.

"Thorin, I have to confess..." she whispered, her voice breathy.

He hummed to show he was listening.

"It's not only because of the moon days… that I stopped you last night."

He lifted his head and stared into her widened eyes.

"I didn't want it to happen… when we were both inebriated," she said. "I felt like… I was taking advantage of you."

He quickly considered her words; and despite the first chagrin he felt - at being treated like a naive 'blushing bride' - he saw certain sense in her words. She was a more experience lover; he, in his mind, had never lain with a woman.

"I thought you changed your mind," he suddenly said, surprised by his own admittance.

"Were you angered?" she asked. "Did you feel that I led you on… and then left you to your own frustration?"

"Even I know that is not how it should be," he answered quietly. "I might have required reading the cursed book to learn about such matters, but even I know how both have to be willing and either has the right to change their mind. I just…"

She smiled to him encouragingly, and he added with a sigh, "I just felt undeserving again."

"Thorin," she whispered.

"I am not your husband, Wren," he said and shook his head. "I am... in function. But I'm not the man you married. To lie with me, you need to… _choose_ me."


	17. Bed and Breakfast

"What do you mean by 'choosing?'" she asked with a frown.

"You need to know firmly that you desire it," Thorin answered. "That you accept me as your husband."

He didn't allow his next words to spill. 'That you will not renegade.' He feared it: that she would give herself to him, and then she would be cold again; that he would once again feel he wasn't on par with that older version of himself; that he'd be given the taste again, and he would know what it was like to have her - and then to lose this treasure. He almost feared _her -_ the power she had over him, his own hunger and yearning he couldn't control for the first time in his life, the paralysing uncertainty he felt. He wasn't dim. He knew this was a combat he was pitifully untrained for. He knew nothing of love and lust. She had him at her mercy - and he was both apprehensive and terrified.

She studied his face, her brows drawn together, her intense perceptive gaze running his features.

"Thorin, I'm no tavern harlot. What happened last night took place because I desired it, and it would have continued…"

"I never thought you would act dishonourably," he interrupted her. "You do not trust me at all, do you?" he voiced out what had pained him for quite a while. "I only mean that I don't want you to regret and to… compare."

"Oh." She exhaled softly. "I misunderstood. I think I'm just… still pained from how you reacted at the beginning. When you found out I was your wife."

It was Thorin's turn to frown perplexed. They seem to be leading two separate conversations.

She seemed to have guessed his confusion. She laughed a small laugh.

"Thorin, I apologise because I seem to hear hidden reproach in your words, which I now see you don't mean. I thought you had implied that I was… wanton. An unfitting wife."

"While I was worried you'd be disappointed in me," Thorin grumbled under his breath.

His own sudden admission was a revelation - and it wasn't. His utter lack of knowledge and skill between the sheets wasn't his foremost concern - but apparently it had been on his mind. She had called their marriage libidinous! And he seemed to only have mastered kisses by now! Were they just married and he knew he had her love and her acceptance, they would be discovering the matters of intimacy together. And now not only he was as much as a boy in a man's place in her bed - it was _himself_ that he'd be compared to! An older, experienced self!

"What you fear… I think of it too, Thorin. Of course I do. You _are_ the same man, but you are different. You aren't the Thorin I married," she whispered. "And as bizarre as it is, I do feel sometimes as if I am being unfaithful when I give in to my desire for you."

He saw her long pale fingers twirl the tassel on the end of her belt.

"But I will never be disappointed in you, I can promise you that," she said quietly, her eyes lowered. "What I feel for you is different this time, but it is no less… exciting. And deep. And true."

She threw him a shy look from under her lashes.

Her feelings weren't what he was concerned about, to be honest. Her falling in love with him - which she seemed to be implying - only added to his unease. Simply put, he was worried to appear… lacking when time came. She'd wake up the next morning and wish her 'other husband' were there, instead of the clumsy dimwit who had just discovered carnal pleasures, at two hundred no less. Old goat.

"But there is also..." she started gingerly, and then bit into her bottom lip.

"Aye?" he encouraged, internally cursing in the anticipation of yet another unpleasantry.

"It is just a tad… titillating, if I have to speak honestly. The fact that this time I know more about it," she murmured; and he whipped his head and stared at her.

She giggled and then hid her face behind her hands. What an impossible woman! Her moods swung like a helve hammer!

He gawked at her, and she opened her index and middle fingers and peeked at him between them. The bright green eye was brilliant. Thorin inhaled, to express his irritation - and realised he felt none. Another small snort followed from behind her hand; and the green eye gave Thorin a wink.

And then she leaped at him; the strong arms went around his neck; and she toppled him backwards. She was suddenly splayed on him; and her nose was pressed to his.

"Maybe we just think too much of it. People sometimes… dally without answering any of the questions you and I seem so perturbed by," she murmured into his lips.

"Not the Khazad," he answered, and asked himself why he was still arguing. Surely, to agree with her and to sample some of the 'dallying' would be the most wise proceeding.

She laughed and kissed his lips quickly.

"Oh how naive you are, husband of mine. But what is one to expect from a man who consulted a four hundred year old book trying to seduce his wife!"

He huffed in feigned indignation; and she kissed him again, this time for a few instants longer. Still not nearly long enough, he wanted to tell her.

"I don't have to seduce you. According to the said book, it is your duty to 'accommodate me,'" he said, raising one eyebrow; and her body on him went rigid.

And then a surprised laugh burst out of her.

"You're jesting! You've just made an inappropriate jest!" she exclaimed with disbelief in her voice.

"Nonsense. As you're surely aware, I have no sense of humour," he deadpanned; and she laughed harder.

She dropped her head on his chest. He could feel her delicate form shake on him in frolics. He lifted his hand and brushed the tips of his fingers along her spine. She choked on her laughter; and slowly lifted her face. He felt her body tremble.

"Aye, you don't have a sense of humour. Neither do you know how to affect a woman." Her voice was raspy. "What else? Are you not a renown swordsman?"

Thorin cocked one brow again; and she exhaled through rounded lips.

"You're muddling me," she whispered.

Thorin laughed. She muddled _him_ \- like the fox apple cyder. She was sweet, and tangy, and crisp. Her taste danced on his tongue, and made his head spin. She was golden, and sparling, and intoxicating.

"I should leave you now," she whispered; and he tensed. "Oh no, I'm not fleeing," she rushed to reassure. "I was to meet King Thranduil in the library. I just thought I needed to talk to you first, to clear the last night's misunderstanding."

Thorin silently watched her slide off his body. He immediately felt the absence of the tiny weight and her warmth.

"Would you like to join me for the midday meal?" she asked.

She was sitting her back to him on the bed, fixing her dress, which they'd crumpled and disarrayed in their dalliances.

"Aye, gladly," he answered; and then he sharply sat up and pressed his half-open mouth to the back of her neck.

The copper curls had fallen to one side. The line was elegant; and the skin white and inviting. It tasted most pleasant.

She gasped, and winced away.

"Don't tempt me, my heart," she murmured. "We shouldn't get carried away." She studied his face. "I would like to wait till tomorrow night. Meanwhile, we could eat and talk today; and we still have a dinner with King Thranduil to withstand."

Thorin nodded; and she jumped off the bed.

She then threw a look over it and sighed. "I miss the bed." She gave him a cheeky side glance. "I have most fond memories of it."

"Perhaps, you should sleep in it tonight," Thorin said quickly. "And each night after it."

She laughed and gave him a feigned innocent look. "Should I?"

He shrugged and flopped on his back.

"It is the most comfortable bed I seem to recall having in my whole life," he drew out as if pensively. "Probably better than the divan you sleep on right now."

"Mhm, and the company is most inviting," she laughed.

She shook her head and walked towards the door.

Thorin fought with himself, but lost; and called after her, "So… will you?"

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"We shall see. Let us survive the dinner first."

And with that she was gone. Thorin's gaze danced on the green velvet canopy above his head.

She would come for the meal in the middle of the day, he told himself. He would propagate the cause further then. Carnal desires aside - as much as he was preoccupied with his hunger - he also craved to find out what sleeping in the same bed with her felt like. Her delicate frame and silk skin would feel most delicious, he imagined. And then he had to stop imagining, because going out of his bedchamber in his current state of obvious 'excitement' just wouldn't do.


	18. Cold Meal

**Author's Note:**

 **I apologise for the long wait for this update. I've been madly busy preparing some of my stories - drumroll! - for AMAZON KINDLE! For couple months now I've been collaborating with my editor; and starting this month I'll be publishing my independent writing on Amazon every three months, after appropriate editing and formatting. Since all my stories (so far) feature different versions of my lovely protagonists (Thorin is John/Jack/Darius, and Wren is Wren/Gemma/Olivia/Imogen), I decided that all my writing can become a BRAND: Wren + Raven. Today I received an email from my designer with the logo and the cover for one of the stories; and I can't be happier!**

 **You can follow my news on my professional Facebook page (facebook dot com /katyakolmakov) or on my blog (kolmakov dot ca), if you like.**

 **Hope all my readers are doing well!**

 **Love you!**

 **Katya**

* * *

The woman was late. Thorin was sitting in his parlour, drumming his fingers at the table. It had been about half an hour since a servant had come in with a tray. Thorin had looked at it, and asked for another set of dishes and more food. The courtier - just as all the servants in his household, which Thorin had noticed and highly appreciated - didn't even flinch. With a schooled face he'd left and returned with what had been requested.

And now Thorin was staring at an empty plate and an empty goblet.

Perhaps, she'd forgotten, Thorin told to himself. That seemed unlikely. They had spent a rather stimulating morning together. Surely, their caresses would have stayed in her memory. She was hardly anile! And besides, she'd offered a shared meal herself!

And now Thorin was sitting like a dimwit, hungry and irked, in front of an empty chair, a candle on the table burning dangerously low.

Perhaps she'd been held behind. By the Elvenking. In the library.

In the library, which Thorin hadn't even visited once since he'd woken up, but which he knew she was endlessly fond of. He knew she took their children there; and once he'd overheard her chat with Thror on the valuable volumes she had discovered in yet another newly opened section.

So, she was in the library, reading. With the Elvenking. Absorbed in the avocation, which he, Thorin didn't share with her - but which was endlessly important to her.

And which the pointy eared bastard would so very eagerly join her in.

Thorin looked down at the table. Apparently he'd just bent a silver fork with his thumb, and its handle was sadly sticking out of his clenched fist.

He threw the utensil aside and smacked his palm into the tablecloth.

He was being preposterous! What did he think she was doing with the wood wimp in that library?! he sarcastically asked himself. And then his mind readily supplied a lascivious image.

His wife, on her back, on one of those long wooden tables he remembered from his childhood. Volumes scattered around her. Her skirt around her waist. A long leg in a white stocking. Around the hips of the cursed Elf.

Thorin jumped to his feet and stomped out of the parlour.

Damn the Elf. Damn the books.

Damn the woman!

He'd covered half the distance to the library when he returned to his senses. What was he doing?! What would it look like, if he barged in the library, like a bull in the middle of the mating season, flaring his nostrils and glaring left and right? And did he actually think he would find her in the middle of dalliances with the Elf?

The answer was of course 'no.' For so many reasons, but firstly because she wouldn't be dishonourable. Not her. Not the woman he had chosen - twice by now; once all those years ago; and again now.

He was standing in the middle of a passage, suddenly not sure what to do.

And then he heard her voice. She was laughing, and speaking Sindarin. He wasn't any close to fluent, but he could understand that the conversation concerned children.

And then she showed up, from around the corner. With the Elf.

All Thorin's previous calm was gone. The blood rushed to his head; and he gritted his teeth. The lanky caitiff was leaning, his disgusting torso twisted unnaturally. He was both bending towards her, walking near her - too close to Thorin's taste - and as much as breathing in her ear.

Her cheeks were flushed; and a smile danced on her lips. She murmured something, in effect, thanking the Elf for a compliment or calling him a flatterer. A sly grin spread on the louse's pale face.

"Oh Thorin!" she exclaimed, startled and, seemingly, discomfited.

"Afternoon," the Elf drew out, slowly straightening up like a lacing string being pulled out of a shoe.

Or a snake.

Thorin was going to say something back, not quite certain what; but he found it quite impossible to unclench his jaw.

The woman studied his face; and then her turn-up nose twitched. And then a coy smile spread on her face.

"Thank you for waiting for me, my heart," she chirped, and stepped to Thorin.

She wrapped her arm around his, and addressed the Elf, "I have to abandon you now, my lord. I've kept lord Thorin waiting for too long already. And I don't want to lose a chance for a shared meal with my husband."

The Elf's expressionless eyes ran her face, and then he gave her a slow nod.

"Enjoy your meal, my lady. My lord." He gave Thorin a half bow as well. "I shall see you both at dinner."

He then slowly turned around and walked away. The woman pulled at Thorin's arm; but his body remained rigid.

"Thorin," she hissed under her breath. "Thorin," she repeated; and he finally moved and followed her.

He kept telling himself that he'd shake her off as soon as they reached the parlour where the meal had been served - it was cold by now, he'd like to point out - but she leaned into him; and he could feel her body through their clothes. She was warm and supple; and then her hand lay on his back; and she raked her fingers down his shoulder blade. Thorin wanted to suppress a shudder - but failed.

"There's no need for this show," Thorin growled in Khuzdul; and her hand froze.

"Show?" she repeated.

"Aye. He's long gone."

And then her hand slid lowed, and she gave his left buttock a small pat. Thorin choked on his next venomous remark.

"Stop being such a grump," she whispered in Common Speech.

She let go off his arm, and opened the door to the parlour. She walked in; and he had half a thought to just turn around and leave - but he didn't. He stared at the back of her copperhead - and then unwillingly, at the narrow waist and the hips moving under the skirts. The cursed woman had him wrapped around her cursed little finger, didn't she? He plodded after her, muttering under his nose.

She was already sitting at the table, chewing.

"Mahal help me, I'm starving. I won't send it back to the kitchens to reheat. I think we should just eat it cold," she said.

As if it hadn't been her fault that the meal was cold! Again, he considered just turning around and leaving.

"Sit down, my heart," she said, one of her cheeks rounded with food. "It'll give you a chance to finally lose your temper and roar."

Thorin opened his mouth to give out the aforementioned roar - and then just plopped on his chair.

And then he saw the bent fork near his plate. The woman was busily plating her food; so he picked up a napkin and discreetly threw it over the maimed utensil.

"I've lost track of time," she said nonchalantly.

That still wasn't an apology, Thorin wanted to say. He almost squirmed on his chair from how frustrated he was. On one hand, nothing truly happened; she was just late. Any of the reasons for his anger had been just his fantasies, simply in his head. And after all, he himself hardly believed in any of them. On the other hand, she still hadn't apologised!

"Eat, dear. You're hungry, and are looking for an excuse to be vexed."

"I have a reason to be vexed!" Thorin barked - and then gritted his teeth.

She'd provoked him! And so easily! She could play him like a boy!

And now she was giving him this infuriating knowing look of her. It was all he'd been getting from her, since he woke up, hadn't he? he thought, heating up in his mind more and more. Knowing looks, snide remarks, that ever present condescending little smirk of hers! While everyone else got smiles and pleasantries, even the daft wood wimp!

"Would you like to bend another fork?" she asked in an innocent tone - and he smashed his palm into the table.

"Cease this ridicule!" he roared, just as she'd said.

"Do not raise your voice at me, please. You will regret it later," she said in a calm voice, but he could see she was growing angered. Her cat like eyes were narrowed. "I know you well. You will feel remorseful, but your pride won't let you admit it. And this ridiculous little pique we're having will grow and drag."

She put her fork aside and sighed. When she lifted her eyes at him, she didn't look sardonic anymore; just suddenly weary.

"I've had years of dealing with your temper, and being the patient and the reasonable one; and I'm tired," she said with a bitter smile. "I apologise for being late and for being derisive. I could have been more considerate and stop my 'ridicule' right away," she added dully. "The thing is that we have been in this situation so many times. And while for you right now it's all painful and fresh; for me it's yet another bout of your absurd jealousy. I've endured a myriad of them over years."

She then took a slice of bread and started picking at it. Thorin felt confused. His own emotions; her emotions, which he could somewhat perceive but felt unskilled to face; the whole conundrum of a marital dispute - all of it confounded and irritated him.

He could - _finally_ \- do what he always did when it came to this sort of preposterous drama: he could leave. It had always felt that when he'd removed himself from the squabbles his kin had been having in the past, he had been taking the high ground.

And yet it was different this time. He watched her and saw that her fingers, fidgeting with the bead, trembled; and he could see the lowered corners of her red lips. He'd hurt and offended her; and now he suddenly forgot that _he_ was the hurt and offended one - and all he wanted was to remedy her distress.

He searched his mind; found no understanding what the right thing to do was; and simply did what he felt like.

"I'm sorry," he said; and her face flew up. She looked surprised. "I… don't know..." he started but then cleared his throat.

He almost said 'I don't know what is happening right now,' but that surely would be too childish for him to even utter!

"I'm sorry I caused you grief. And you're right; being jealous of you was absurd," he as much as squeezed each word out.

The shock on her face was a worthy reward for his effort, though; and rather telling as well. Apparently, him apologising wasn't a common happenstance. He suddenly felt smug and superior to his old self. Take that, King Under the Mountain! That's how one treated the woman one loved! Swallow one's pride, if necessary, and make her happy.

"Apology accepted," she said quietly.

He nodded and picked up his fork - and then stared at its bent neck.

She snorted first. He looked up and saw her hide her mouth behind her hand. Another snort escaped her, as much as she fought it; and then she shook in suppressed giggles. And then it was his turn to chuckle; and then he chuckled again; and soon the two of them were laughing loudly together.

And then he desperately wanted to kiss her. She was so charming, her eyes squinted, and her cheeks flushed. He forgot his hunger and remembered that he'd been scheming before: he needed to convince her to move back into their bed at night.

He threw the fork and the napkin onto the table, got up, and walked up to her. He had a momentary thought of picking her up under her elbows; but he wasn't certain whether that would be welcome, which meant he was in danger of being forceful. So, he just leaned in to her face, and waited for her answer.

She blushed but readily kissed him. And then he leaned into her more; and her arms went around his neck. And then he pulled back and up, holding her to him; and she followed. And then he wasn't sure but somehow he stepped back to the settee by the wall; and she was on him; and he fell on his back. And it seemed they both found the situation quite favourable.


	19. First Taste

**Please, be advised that the RATING of the story has changed to MATURE. What can I say? I can never stay away from smut for long :P**

 **Cheers xx**

 **K.**

* * *

"I have not..." she murmured, and her nimble little fingers opened the top button on his doublet. "Finished my meal."

She slowly lowered her lips on his throat. Three light kisses followed; and then the next button opened.

"And you..." she continued. With the next kiss her lips were parted slightly; and he felt her warm breath on his skin. "Haven't eaten a single bite..."

"I'm not hungry," he rasped out.

His head dropped back; and he closed his eyes.

"Liar," she whispered; and her hand slid in his open collar.

"No, I am not. I just know which hunger is more important," he answered; and she laughed throatily.

" _This_ hunger of yours will not be satisfied either," she said.

He remembered what she'd told him about 'moon days;' and that they needed to wait till the next morning at least.

"Should we go back to our meal then?" he asked.

She had opened the lowest button, on his stomach; and pulled at the two sides. And then she shifted, lying on him lower; and her palm suddenly slid under his tunic. Thorin gasped.

"You aren't stopping," he said. His voice was croaky.

"No, I am not. You are so observant, my heart." He could feel her delicate frame shake from laughter. "I've just remembered that you aren't _asking_ because you don't know."

"Don't… know… what..." He had trouble forming sentences.

Her fingers - short nails playfully scraping at his sternum - danced on him; and he suddenly felt hot.

"Don't know what we can do while we wait," she whispered.

And then he heard a click of his belt. She untied the lacing; and from the swift movement of her hand he felt even more 'excited.' His erection was confined in his breeches, painful, and demanding.

"May I..." he asked.

Some sort of bright lights danced under his lowered lids.

"May you what?"

Her palm lay on him, through the fabric; and he as much as groaned in need.

"May I _ask_?" he said.

He didn't know _what_ he was asking for; but surely there were ways. If he could address this state of his himself, she could do something as well - and she seemed to be hinting the two of them had done something of the sort before.

There had been talks between the lads when he had been young, of course. There had been suggestions, and vague descriptions. But truly he knew nothing: what was common, what was to be expected, what was appropriate in a marriage. Even in his aroused state he'd hate to offend her, or make her uncomfortable.

"You may," she said - and jerked the drawstring on his breeches.

Her fingers brushed along his length; and he grunted.

"Please..." He sounded begging - and cared not.

Her hand wrapped around him; and it was intoxicating! His hips jumped up, seeking more warmth and pressure; and he made another pleading noise.

And then she suddenly pushed off him with the second hand, still holding his member in the other; and slid on the floor. Something thumped onto the boards, perhaps her knees; and he looked. She was now kneeling between his legs, quickly unlacing the breeches. And then her right hand started moving.

He dropped back on the settee with a coarse moan. And then he gulped air with his open mouth, with an almost cry - of surprise and pleasure. He didn't know it could be done with a woman's lips! At least, he didn't know wives and Queens did!

It ended quickly - with loud ringing in his ears and a sharp shout from him. His whole body arched on the settee; and she forcefully pressed him down with her left hand, her right one still moving on him, meeting her tight lips. If he could think he'd agree that indeed, this was better and prolonged his pleasure.

She let him go; and he just lay, panting, and staring at the ceiling.

And then he realised that she'd gotten up and left. He rose onto his elbows and looked around. He understood that she most likely had gone to cleanse her mouth - and a wave of heat licked the back of his neck. The thought was so lewd, and oddly arousing.

She returned, her lips even brighter than usual; and indeed she had a small washcloth in her hands.

He just gawked at her, not sure what to say. An absurd thought of thanking her came to his mind. Weren't such pleasures called 'favours?' Favours required gratitude.

She sat on the bench near him and smiled at him.

"Would you like to return to the meal?" she asked.

In all honesty, he wouldn't refuse such offer. He also felt strangely sleepy; and a thought of the bed came. But was it appropriate? Was he to somehow return the _favour_? She didn't seem to indicate he was required to act in any way, though. She just sat, giving him a warm, slightly amused look.

"You do know you could always ask if you don't know how to proceed, don't you?" she whispered in a feigned conspiratory tone. "I will tell you."

"I am hungry," he admitted. "We should return to the table. And perhaps, we should repose afterwards."

She gave out a silver laughter.

"Well, I don't require any rest." She shifted closer and her arm lay softly around his shoulders. "Although it is I who is usually the tired one. After..." she trailed away suggestively.

He looked at her askance. She was now playing with his hair, on his nape; and goosebumps ran down his neck.

"And also, if we repose, the hunger will be back," she said. "Which is, of course, not at all an issue. We could just 'get tired' again."

"That would be… unfair," he muttered. "As you've explained to me, you can't have any pleasures."

"I can. It feels the same on these days, sometimes it even helps with the pains. I just don't wish to discomfort you, my heart. Most men prefer to wait till there is no more bleeding."

She put her head on his shoulder.

"If you come to bed at night, we can just play it by ear." He aimed for a nonchalant tone. "You could always teach me what to do. And if there are pains and I could aid, why wouldn't I?"

She snorted.

"What if it's the sleeping part that will bother you? When do you remember sleeping with anyone last? I might snore, or kick," she said.

She was now as much as scratching his head like a cat's, and he couldn't stifle a yawn.

"Let's feed you, my heart. We can't have you wan and listless," she said rising.

She walked to the table, and he watched her fluid light steps. He was still somewhat confused how what they had just done was to be perceived; but the needs of his stomach were to be addressed first.

At meal they spoke of a few official matters; and he's quickly forgotten his previous perplexion. He also felt fully recovered now, his fatigue gone. His mind had switched on the matters he needed to attend before dinner; and he forgot about the bed and the 'repose' they'd discussed before. Only when he'd said his hasty goodbyes to her and walked to his study, did he remember that he'd been planning to lure her into bed. It could of course wait till nightfall, he brushed off the momentary concern. Surely, she wouldn't think he didn't care. It's just that there were other matters he needed to address first.

The dinner with the Elf was uneventful. They conversation felt strained; and after half an hour Thorin was sort of excluded from it, which he was very much in favour for. Thorin's wife and the Elf were discussing the volumes he was looking into in the Erebor Library, which was the reason of his visit at the first place. Thorin ate and from time to time threw looks at the woman. She was once again dressed in a formal attire; and Thorin delighted in watching her move and talk. The dress was of deep dark green colour; of rich velvet; decorated with brocade and a pattern of small emeralds on the bodice. They shone and sparked when she breathed and spoke. The lace - of some sort of yellow or pink tinge - lay delicately around the cut of the dress; and Thorin had to make an effort to keep his glances towards the pale skin discreet.

And finally, after the conversation had turned into goodbyes; the cheese had been finished; and the candles had grown short; all three of them rose. Another round of pleasantries and bows followed; and Thorin couldn't wait for the Elf to finally leave. Now that she stood nearby and it was time to _repose,_ Thorin remembered their morning, and the afternoon, and her laugher, and her lips on his skin.

They left the dining room together; and then he picked up her hand and walked hastily along the passage. She followed, silently. Thorin jerked the door to their shared parlour; and she walked in by him.


	20. Pins and Needles

**My darlings,**

 **The previous chapter didn't get any reviews, and the stats are pretty low. Is it because the story has become an M rated one? Is it not to your liking? I reckoned, if no one reads/enjoys it, I might as well give it up then; but I'm going to give it one more chapter. If you're still reading and interested in it, give me a shout. I'll get back to updating it regularly if there's anyone waiting for the next chappie out there :)**

 **Cheers xx**

 **K. K.**

* * *

She walked into the bedroom. When he followed in, she was standing in front of her vanity. Objects on it had been cleaned and organised. Some of her belongings had been taken away by her maid, to be used in her study he assumed; the ones left had stayed untouched since the day he'd woken up.

She ran the tips of her fingers on a long lacquer box.

"You brought me these pins from the Blue Mountains," she said. "It was just a few years into our marriage. You went to visit some relations; and I missed you terribly. I didn't know if I were to tell you of my suffering. I didn't want to seem needy; and I just..."

Thorin stopped in the doors listening.

"I greeted you with a smile, as if you never left. And then you handed me the box." She opened the lid gently; and he saw two rows of small ebony hairpins. "Twenty seven," she said quietly. "One for each day we were apart. And that was when I knew you missed me too."

He slowly approached her.

"I'm sure I missed you then. I would miss you now if I were parted from you," he said; and she looked at him askance.

She closed the lid and walked a small circle around the room, her hand hovering over a few things.

Thorin thought of the previous night and said, half flirtatiously, half in sincere concern, "Are you comfortable in that torture device?"

She gave him another sardonic side glance.

"The corset," he clarified. "All those straps and wires that were suffocating you."

She still wasn't moving, watching him with one eyebrow raised; and he offered, this time fully in jest, "I can close my eyes if you need privacy."

She could always leave to another room, or ask him to, he reasoned. But he hoped it was all a game now - and that they were playing the same one.

"Why would I want privacy?" she answered nonchalantly. "I enjoy your company. That's why I married you."

The same old grievance scraped at his mind, but he didn't let it dampen his spirit.

"Or at least, that's why I'm in this room tonight," she said, with a knowing small smile.

Once again, she obviously could see all through him - but this time it was a pleasant thought.

"Well, alright," she murmured, and pulled at a long narrow hair comb that held her braids in place, wrapped around her head.

A few smaller pins followed and the plaits heavily fell on her shoulders. She dropped the pins on the window sill she stood by, and pushed her hands into her hairs. Copper and silver waves scattered, gleaming in the candle light. She made a few more seemingly idle steps around the room, while he still stood pinned to the same spot near the vanity, following her with his eyes.

The hidden pins from her bodice followed, and the bodice opened just as the night before. She threw the pins carelessly on a small desk, and picked up the end of the lacing. Thorin held his breath.

She pulled, and then shimmied her shoulders - and the dress dropped on the floor, with a soft rustle. She stepped out of it. He could see the elegant lines of her shoulders under the gauzy undertunic, and the narrow waist hugged by the corset. Just as before she daintily picked up the white petticoat; he saw the flash of the mint green stockings; and she shook off her tiny shoes.

She sat on the bed and looked at him. His mouth felt dry, and he licked his lips. She gave out a small laugh and patted the bed lightly.

"Would you like to give me a hand with the… torture device?" she asked.

He slowly came up and sat. The corners of her lips were twitching. She lifted her arms and wiggled her fingers.

"You'll have to start with the chemise," she said.

He assumed she was referring to the white undertunic, with a lacy collar, which he'd had to keep his eyes away from all through the dinner. He carefully picked up its hem, and pulled it up and off her body.

His eyes fell on the golden specks of freckles on her shoulders. There were straps, of rich lace, coming from under the corset, so he assumed there were more layers to uncover. He couldn't say he minded.

The ends of the ribbon holding the two sides of the corset together were tucked away. She clearly wasn't going to help him out; so he hooked his finger on the top of the corset and gently pulled it away from her body. He then had to fish the ribbon out with his thumb and his index finger. It required quite a dexterity from him - and was so very exciting.

When the corset opened, she took a deep breath in, and exhaled with a soft moan. He took it off her body and threw it onto the floor.

The only garment left on her upper body was a curious sleeveless tunic, short, down to her waist, with the straps he'd seen early on her shoulders. It was tucked into the petticoat - and was sadly not transparent. The colour was of the same green tinge as her stockings.

"I take all my judgement back," he said. "Damn the formalities. You don't have to wear this preposterous armour ever again. Well, maybe just for a few minutes, so I can unlace it again."

She burst into laughter.

"Fancied it, didn't you?" she asked. "But I don't wear it because I think you expect me to. I hardly do anything just because it's something my husband approves. I'm not an obedient wife," she whispered conspiratorially.

"That much I have already learnt," he said, studying the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

He then chuckled from a suddenly frivolous memory that came to him.

"What is it?" she asked.

He hesitated for a second, but he felt so content and unconcerned with her at the moment, that he decided to share.

"We were young then, Dwalin and I; and I now think it must have been my Mother who tasked Balin with approaching us. It was to be a subtle conversation I assume."

He chuckled again, lost in the recollections.

"What sort of a conversation?" the woman asked greedily.

She'd half turned, to face him, tucking her feet under her. He moved back on the bed, leaning against the headboard.

"The conversation of marriage. Of considering the appropriate wife, from a good family, and with a fitting temper," he answered.

Her intent interest was starting to entertain him; and he momentarily forgot about their previous pursuit of taking garments off her body. So had she, it seemed. That was fascinating. Did it mean that she craved but was deprived of such conversations? Was this another chance for him to improve on the 'old Thorin,' to be better than him?

"And what temper would that be?" she asked.

He smirked.

"You've read the book. You should know."

"Mahal help me, you must be jesting!" She threw her hands in the air in surprised disbelief.

"Indeed I am not," he laughed. "Just as prescribed in _Shahnel Bakhan_ one was to marry his opposite, to compliment his temperament."

She continued staring at him with wide open eyes.

"So what happened next? I can't even imagine how that conversation went!" she exclaimed.

"It didn't. As soon as I understood where Balin was going with his vague hints and small coughs," he said with a pointed look; and she giggled.

"And you never came back to this conversation I assume," she said.

"Of course not. I was certain I had much more important matters to attend to. I had no time or desire to ponder a woman of what disposition would irritate me least," he deadpanned; and she as much as squinted, clearly trying to understand if he was joking.

"Dwalin, on the other hand, as well as Gloin and few others didn't think that the conversation was closed," he continued, still in the same even tone. "It became quite a hobbyhorse of theirs to drag yet another tapestry and shove it towards me in the most inopportune moment pointing out yet another branch of an ancient family tree and saying that 'this lively, chatty, maudlin lass from the Iron Hills' or 'that obedient, sensitive, somewhat impractical beauty from the Blue Mountains' would fit me perfectly."

Contrary to his expectations she didn't laugh. She held pensive silence for a few moments and then said, "Are you saying that your perfect wife wouldn't be either? What is that you would have asked for, then: quiet, practical, no maudlin feelings?"

"I'm saying it's all a pile of rubbish," he said, surprised that she didn't seem to join his humour. They seemed to have understood each other well before, and found the same things worthy of a good laugh, like the damn fork earlier that day.

"What then? What would you seek in a wife?" she asked insistently.

He thought it odd that she'd keep asking, especially since this discussion dealt with the sheer hypothetical. He _had_ a wife. It was surely something she'd been ruminating; and he knew he couldn't possibly solve this riddle; so he decided to answer honestly.

"I would like my wife to be a woman of her own," he said, still feeling rather like a dimwit when saying it to his _actual_ wife. "I need to respect her. And aye, I suppose I'd like her to be practical. Capable. To have the will of her own."

He peeked and saw that she was frowning slightly. Was she wondering whether she fit this description? he wondered astounded.

Indeed it seemed she was! She then stretched and picked up a cover, folded at the foot of the bed; and wrapped it around herself. She couldn't possibly be cold! The fireplace burnt brightly in the room; and to be honest, Thorin hadn't taken his doublet only because he had been distracted, and it just hadn't come to it - hopefully, yet.

"Your Mother wouldn't have approved of me," she said, her eyes lowered.

"My Mother was never the one to make such decision," Thorin answered.

So it was indeed some preposterous insecurity that made her draw her brows together and bite her bottom lip. Thorin just couldn't understand it. And that was the woman who hadn't shown a single sign of weakness since he'd met her, figuratively speaking; who hadn't backed down; who had been challenging him every step of the way. He had stricken a chord, he realised! He'd gotten through her armour - and possibly because she as well had been feeling languished and careless in their game.

She squared her shoulders and pursed her lips.

"Small mercies, I reckon," she said, her tone cold.

Thorin did not enjoy this change in her demeanour! He didn't enjoy it one bit! Neither the regal set of her head; nor the aloof expression. He needed to return her back to what they had just had: the playful banter, the soft shining of her eyes, the touches she'd allowed him, and welcomed!


	21. Boots Off!

**My darlings,**

 **I was simply overwhelmed by the response to my previous chapter! You're all so kind and lovely - and there are so many of you! My oh my! Well, now I have no choice but to continue my escapades.**

 **And thank you! Thank you all for the reviews!**

 **Special thanks to the reader nicked AI for the outcry: "Let them love, please!" I couldn't stop giggling. I feel like the worst gooseberry here, standing in the way of their loving. I'll try to let the two love birds finally have at it *ehehe***

 **Love you all!**

 **Cheers xx**

 **Katya**

 **P.S. Just a reminder that I have some independent webserials going at wattpad dot com. The name's Katya Kolmakov. Have a look! It's still them, Thorin and Wren, but 'dressed' as different characters in stories of different genres.**

 **P.P.S. I also have four books published on Amazon; two of them having just gone up. Have a look! They are available as Kindle Unlimited as well.**

 **If you're interested in my writing besides FF, you can follow my Facebook page: facebook dot com /katyakolmakov. If you click on the sign up button you'll start getting my newsletter. The first email is coming out at the end of this week.**

 **And now to the Erebor bedroom! *wink wink***

* * *

And then the solution came that was so simple and clear that Thorin even gave out a small laugh.

He just met her eyes and asked, "Have I upset you?"

She looked up from the embroidered leaves on the cover.

"Pardon?"

"I seemed to have ruined your mood," he said simply. "It was never my intention."

She opened her mouth, but then sank her teeth into her bottom lip. He straightened up and shifted closer to her on the bed.

"Wren."

Her name felt foreign on his tongue; after all he didn't get to pronounce it that often. She looked up again, and studied his face.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

And then her features softened, and she moved closer to him as well.

"Nothing. It's… nothing." She smiled now. "It was just my silly thoughts; and my own… aggravations, which you should not grieve yourself with."

"But I want to," he said. "I could help."

She smiled wider.

"Not always. Some of them are too nonsensical. I'm over them now, I swear. And I do appreciate that you wish to share them and to help."

Her slender arm snaked out of her 'tent,' and she softly touched his sleeve.

"Are you certain I have not offended you?" he asked.

"No, of course not!" she exclaimed, her face clear and content again. "I've enjoyed your story; and I thank you for sharing it with me. I regret now that I didn't let myself enjoy it more. It is after all amusing." She shook the cover off her shoulders and her arms lay on his shoulders. "You, Dwalin, young and full of yourselves, thinking all those lasses you jested about would even spare you a glance..." She shook her head and gave out a sarcastic 'tsk-tsk' sound. "Oh, the naivety of the youth!"

He chuckled, and tilted his head.

"Are you implying some maiden would refuse my courtship? I was a prince at the time."

"I'm certain that they cared for it not. No ancestry or riches can make a woman accept a disagreeable man. It's the temper that counts."

Her cool slender hand lay on his jaw, and she brushed her thumb to the corner of his mouth. This simple touch showed itself surprisingly sensual.

"And the looks as well," she drew out. "Being the wife of a Prince and, as I am well aware, of a King is more of a burden and a lot of hard work. Being the wife of Thorin, son of Thrain?" she murmured. "That's a _pleasure_."

He lunged ahead and caught her mouth roughly. She embraced him readily, answering to his kisses. The appreciation towards her that he'd felt - for her sober attitude, for the mature and calm treatment of her moods - was quickly replaced by the sheer, piercing lust.

And then kisses weren't enough anymore. He yearned for more, but had only a vague idea of how to quench the thirst. He grabbed, and squeezed her shoulders, and arms; and pulled her into him, her slender body, strong and supple. He kissed the neck, and the open collarbone; and he felt annoyed at the lace that was in the way; and as much as growled into her skin in greed. She gave out a throaty laugh, and then suddenly grabbed his ear.

"Thorin," she called, and pulled. "Tho-rin."

Her voice was raspy, and she drew out his name.

"Mahal, you're eager," she muttered. "I forgot it about you. When you still didn't learn to savour it..."

He looked up at her. Her strong fingers still held his ear.

"You're overdressed, my lord," she deadpanned; and then laughed. He assumed he looked stunned. He felt stunned, as if hit to the back of a head with a wooden club; or as if drunk.

And then she let go of his helix, and started quickly unclasping his doublet. He blinked and rushed to help. They dragged the doublet, the waistcoat, and the upper tunic off him; and here he was sitting in front of her, only in the silk undershirt left on his upper body - suddenly unsure how to proceed.

Now it was her turn to leap onto him, and grab, and kiss. Her hands were clawing at his shoulders and his chest; and she gritted through clenched teeth, "Mahal, I missed you..." He wrapped his arms around her waist, and jerked her towards him; and she was on his lap, suddenly taller than him, looming, and kissing him. His fingers tangled into the flaming hair, and he tried to twist from under her mouth, because the smooth skin of her throat was right in front of him; and he wanted it! She bit his bottom lip; and it drove him mad! More, he just wanted more!

"It's like the first time..." she rasped out; and then she jolted, and pushed away from him, and met his eyes. "We should stop… or not..." She squeezed her eyes for an instant, as if gathering her thoughts. "There might still be bleeding, a bit..."

He gave her a confused look; and then he remembered what she'd told him of a woman's moon days.

"Will it hurt you?" he asked.

"No, not at all," she answered, and smiled. "And it might not even stain. Some men just prefer to wait..."

"I don't think I can," he blurted; and she barked a low laugh.

She cupped his jaw and studied his eyes. He wasn't sure what she was looking for in his gaze. Whatever she saw seemed to please her; and she leaned to his lips again.

His first urge was to rush and resist her guidance; but he forced himself to follow her lead. This time her movements were slow; and he matched the rhythm. Her caresses felt deeper and firmer now; her palms slid down his torso; and he felt her fingers slip under the hem of his undershirt. He shuddered, and leaned into the kiss, seeking more.

She pushed her hands up, bunching the tunic; and he bent, and moved back, helping her to take it off. When it was off, he met her eyes again.

"I need to..." she said, and then cleared her throat. "Just give me a moment, please."

She climbed off the bed, and he watched her in astoundment.

"I just need to..." she continued muttering, and then pointed at the bathchambers' door. "Just a moment, I promise."

She walked through the door hastily; and he just sat on the bed, feeling rather like a dimwit. She was back quickly, though. She walked up to the bed and stopped near it.

"I needed to make sure that… It doesn't matter." She shrugged, without continuing.

He appreciated the lack of discussing the mechanics of her moon days. She'd obviously was checking whether she still bled; and he was glad that she just took care of it without his participation.

She tilted her head and looked him over. Her eyes were burning.

"Mahal, I missed this view." She gave him a predatorial smirk; and he raised one eyebrow.

"Why are you enjoying the view from afar then?" he asked, switching to Khuzdul without realising it.

She laughed, and then jumped ahead, toppling him backwards onto the bed. He caught her easily; she was after all such a small thing. She rose on all four above him; and he watched her lick her bright red lips. He wanted a taste as well! He lifted his head, aiming for a kiss - but missed. And then he realised she'd moved a tad, up and away from him. There was a mischievous smile playing on her lips; and he rose some more trying to catch it. She escaped again. She was teasing him!

He considered grabbing the back of her head and jerking her down; but something stopped him. He saw that she was waiting to see what he'd do. He smiled widely to her and lifted his hand and ran his fingers down her arm - slowly, languishly. Her lips parted softly in response. That was encouraging; and he rose higher, and holding his upper body in the air he kissed the bare shoulder, and brushed the tips of his fingers along her spine, just as the night before. She moaned; and supporting himself on one elbow, he placed his other palm on the back of her neck, under the soft copper and silver waves. He didn't pull. Instead he kissed the jaw and the neck, and his lips then reached the little ear, which burnt feverishly under his breath, and he whispered, "Kasamhili." _Please._

She turned her head. He saw her dilated pupils and the blush on her high cheekbones. She licked her lips again; and then moved from under his hand. She slowly sat on him; and he grunted when her body weighed on his erection.

She then quickly opened the row of small hooks on the front of the undertunic she had on; and the two halves of the bodice opened. He looked at the strip of the pale skin, between her still covered breasts.

Her fingers danced on the bare skin of his stomach, down to the buckle on the belt - and then she suddenly laughed.

"You still have your boots on," she said. "Mahal help me, you didn't take them off when you came in. I was right, you _are..._ " She stopped herself; and he understood she was sparing his sensitivities.

"I am what?" he asked distracted by her hands moving on his belt and then on the buttons of his trousers.

The two sides of the bodice fluttered, and he caught a glimpse of the soft lines inside. The skin was as if glowing, inviting; and he gently slid his palms on her sides. He pulled; and this time she allowed, and kissed him deeply.

"Chaste," she murmured into his lips.

"Teach me then," he said, answering to her kisses.


	22. Lace, Ribbons, and Curls

**I swear I'm not being a tease on purpose :D It's just my brain works in 1.5K word increments :D And I promise now that I know someone's reading the story, I write during any free moment I have. Today I was typing on my phone during my lunch break. Since I work in a daycare, it felt a bit strange to write smut when surrounded by plush Paw Patrol characters LOL It felt as if those round plastic eyes were full of judgement :D**

 **Love you all, my darlings!**

 **Cheers xx**

 **Katya**

* * *

She picked up his hands and pulled, making him sit up.

"Boots and socks off," she said with a smile.

He smirked back and forcefully shook his legs making her jump on him. She giggled. All this dangling did nothing for the boots of course. They were tight, of soft leather.

"That's why you need to take them off beforehand. To be prepared. At all times," she said.

He barked a laugh.

"So what do I do now?" He bobbed her up and down a bit more. He wanted to hear another of her little giggles.

"You'll have to fend for yourself."

She pulled at his hands again, making them go behind her back. This way her nose was just in front of his - and he felt her press to the bare skin of his chest.

"The shirt really should go," he said pointing at the garment with his eyes.

"Boots first," she answered and pecked his lips.

It took him a few jerks and twists to take them off, while she sat on him, her legs around his waist. He couldn't say he had anything to complain about: definitely not about the small kisses and bites his ears were receiving, nor her short nails scraping his beard.

He pushed the second boot off with a satisfied grunt.

"Now, can I take the cursed shirt off you?" he grumbled.

"Be my guest," she dismissed and lifted her arms.

The sides of the garment shifted, baring the smooth, soft looking inner sides of her breasts. He stretched his hand and placed it under one small peak, onto her ribs. She drew a sharp breath, and he brushed his thumb to the silky underside.

"Gaihul," he whispered. _Like a dove's wing._

He then picked up the sides of the shirt, and she lowered her arms helping him to take it off. His gaze lingered on her pale breasts and then the golden freckles on the shoulders. He cupped her jaw, and she leaned into the touch and closed her eyes. He brushed his palm down the neck, and then let the tips on his fingers slide between the breasts. He greedily watched her face, how her lips parted, the fluttering of the lashes, the hungry, almost pleading expression.

She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, seeking his lips. They kissed; his hands wandered the narrow back, and then they slid down, onto the waist of her petticoat. He felt a row of tiny buttons under his palm.

"Do you want me to open them?" she murmured into a kiss.

One of the most striking changes about the body he possessed, which he'd noticed almost immediately after he'd woken up, was how soft his hands were. They still bore callouses from a sword; he was informed he still trained every day. But the nails were short and looked after; and he found balms and small tools for the skin and the nails in a wooden box in the bathchambers. He kept up with the care routine, just as with all other habits, since he'd been advised it could help his memory to return. The hands were also dexterous, these days more adept at holding a quill rather than a sword or a hammer.

He smirked and quickly opened three minuscule buttons. She hummed approvingly; and he continued his work. When he was done, he had a second of hesitation, but the hunger in him was pushing him to act. He firmly picked her up under her arms and moved her off him and onto the bed. She giggled and flopped onto her back, her arms above her head. And then she lifted her hips. He got the hint and pulled the voluminous skirts off her. It was a cloud of white and light green lace that fell silently on the floor where he pushed it off the bed.

He looked her over greedily. He could see the small breasts, the soft lines of the stomach, and the curves of the waist and hips. He leaned in and kissed near her navel, then running his tongue around it, delighting in the hardly audible moan. He lifted his face and met her eyes. Her gaze was burning.

"Is that what you expected a bare woman to look like?" she asked.

"I can't say I had been much preoccupied with such musings." He put his hand on her waist, revelling in the taut slender shape in his grasp, and caressed the skin with his thumb. "I've thought of you bare, though, I have to admit."

"And?"

He was not sure what she was asking about. He kissed the stomach again. The skin felt like the richest satin from Gondor, silky, and as if powdered with some pearly dust.

"You don't have anyone to compare me to," she said. "That is of course if you hadn't lied about your experiences when we met. But surely you had had expectations, what your wife would look like… and I'm no dwarrow maiden."

"I don't know what a bare dwarrow maiden looks like," he said, and rubbed his nose to her stomach. "And I could not care less. You?" He smiled at her, and answered simply, "Sasakhabiya abanamul." _You look beautiful_.

She returned his smile. There were just a few pieces of clothing left on her - and all of them seemed to be of most charming sort. There was a lace girdle, with silk ribbons, which seemed to hold her stockings in place; and some kind of short underpants, also lacy and puffy, some layers of the same pale green, some white. They reached her mid-thigh.

"I see you have noticed the bloomers," she said with a small laugh. "I've chosen them for you."

"Oh?" he asked, and traced the ribbons between the girdle and the top of the stocking with the tip of his finger. "I am grateful."

She giggled.

"Let me deepen your gratitude," she purred; and then suddenly she twisted and deftly rolled on her stomach.

His 'gratitude' increased tenfold. It was the same hunger, but more urgent, more fierce. His length strained in his trousers uncomfortably; and a growl rumbled in his throat.

He had only one thought - she indeed knew how to dress _for_ him. In front of him, open to his craving gaze, there was her backside - round, pert, with layers of lace in a cloud around it - with a wide ribbon of silk on each thigh, and a strip of her bare skin between the bottom of the bloomer leg and the stocking. He was frozen, torn between so many urges: to place his palm on the cloud of lace; to squeeze; to grope; or to lower his mouth on the naked skin, to lick and to bite; or… He just couldn't decide, and he rose on his knees because something had to be done with his painful arousal - but he just couldn't decide!

"Belt," she said, and looked at him over her shoulder.

She was supporting herself on her elbows, and the back was bent like a cat's, and it made her only more appetising!

"What?" he rasped out.

"Take off your belt," she said, and giggled, "And everything else for that matter. You must be... choked."

He grabbed the buckle and jerked, with an unnecessary force; and the belt slid out of the loops. He threw it aside, and the buckle loudly thudded on the floor. He started fumbling with the buttons on his crotch, and writhing, and pushing the breeches off together with the trousers. He had to drop on his now naked backside to push the legwear off - and then he once again froze because he was bare, and she was watching him.

And then he just couldn't wait anymore, and he lunged ahead, and grabbed the waist of her bloomers. He tugged - and immediately it got stuck in the ribbons of the girdle. The tops of her buttocks were showing, nonetheless - and he once again growled in frustration. Still pulling with his right hand, he pressed his left one onto the sheets on the other side of her body, and lowered his mouth on the mouth-watering mounds. He groaned from the ecstasy of tasting, and sinking his teeth into the bouncy flesh.

She yelped, and then started laughing. She scampered on the bed; for a second he thought she was moving away, and he snarled.

"Let me go, brute!" She was choking with laughter. "I'm only trying to help."

It took him a second to make his fingers uncurl from around the fabric of her bloomers - and she rolled away and sat up.

"Mahal help me, you're like a wolf cub! No patience whatsoever."

She shook her head, and pulled at the ribbons. They slid out of the loops on the girdle, which she quickly opened at the back. The undergarment followed his clothes onto the floor. Her hands lay on the waist of the bloomers.

"Don't!" he barked at her, and she gave him an amused look. "Please, let me," he said softening his tone. "Please?"

She lay onto her back, just as before; and he hooked his fingers at the top of the bloomers. While they traveled down her long slender legs, he kept his eyes on the lace - and then he looked up and his gaze fell on the dark auburn curls between her legs.

He should have read _all_ of the chapters in the cursed book, he suddenly thought. Mahal help him, he should have prepared better!


	23. Good Night and Good Morning?

**Author's Note:**

 **Reader Memo, the story won't show in the category update feed (I think that's what you mean) because it's M rated; and to see the updates for the M rated stories you have to change the filter settings. The easiest way is to register as a user and to favourite/follow the story. This way you'll be getting notifications to your email. **

**Which brings me to the question to ALL my readers:**

 **Do any of you follow my writer's facebook page (facebook dot com slash katyakolmakov); and if you do would you like me to announce fanfiction updates there too, like I do with Wattpad and my other media? I know FF sends you an email when a new chapter is up, but I can put it up on facebook as well. Let me know!**

 **Cheers xx**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

"Thorin," she called to him; and he tore his eyes off the meeting of her thighs. He saw her stretch her hands to him with a soft smile. "Come."

He moved up along her body. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her lips. The kiss was long and sweet. And then her knees opened, and he carefully lowered himself on her, still holding most of his weight on his elbows. He suddenly wondered if he'd crash her.

And then she wrapped her legs around him, and pulled, making him drop.

"Ah, that's better," she murmured and smiled at him wider.

It was indeed better. He felt his length press into her hot centre, and his hips jerked involuntarily. His head spun. She gathered tight handfuls of his hair and led him to her lips.

He had very little ability to observe and ruminate, but one thought prevailed: this body had done it before. Surely, performing such natural act would come… naturally.

"You're thinking too hard about it," she purred, and kissed a corner of his mouth.

"I'm not thinking at all," he grumbled, and she gave out a small warm laugh.

"You're frowning, my heart. Just look at the crinkle between your brows."

She brushed the tips of her finger to his forehead. He decided that hesitating and doubting was below a Khazad warrior - so he sharply turned his head and caught the little fingers between his lips. She made a surprised short noise.

"Oh, you'll manage just fine," she breathes out.

And he agreed with her. After all, they desired each other, and all was right and well. He took his urges and cravings as guidance. He wished for her taste - he caught her mouth. He craved to feel her body in his arms - he pushed one open palm under her back, under the shoulder blades. He angles her face to his greedy kisses with the other; and then pushed his fingers into the golden and silver silk of her hair at the nape.

His body, especially the certain part of it, demanded heat and pressure, which was surely the only way to relieve the almost painful tension - and he pushed in. Some sort of roaring flames exploded in his head and behind his closed lids …

… and then world disappeared.

And a wave of familiar - yet much more overwhelming and profound - pleasure spread through his body. He grunted, moaned - and fell onto her body like a cut down tree.

* * *

His hearing returned first, and then the sensation of her stroking his back with her small hot hand. And then the understanding came: he had just had his first amorous congress. And it ended... promptly.

Some vague preconceived notions came back to him: that such brevity of the coition was something shameful. For some reason, he couldn't recall the reasoning behind such idea; instead the preposterous youngling saying bounced in his mind, which had made him and his peers burst into juvenile snickering when in their adolescence: "Keep your blade clean, and your fight long."

He lifted his head and looked at her.

"Are you going to be a grump about such beginning?" she murmured.

"Should I be?" he asked. So, it was indeed an undesirable proceeding. And then he _heard_ her words. "Beginning?"

He was starting to feel uncomfortable. His somewhat softened appendage was now unpleasantly sensitive. He wondered if it was acceptable to move onto the sheets near her now, when she nudged him off herself. He rolled, failing to suppress a cringe and a groan.

"Well, I was your first woman… last time," she said with a giggle. "You quickly recovered, and we repeated the act. Several times."

Thorin was indeed feeling his vigour was returning.

"I wasn't an old man then as I am right now," Thorin grumbled again.

"You've always been old, my dear. I doubt you've ever been a child or a stripling. You have too much gravitas." She dramatically widened her eyes.

"I've always had duties to attend. And the adequate gravitas was required," he said stately.

"Uh-huh. Just as I said," she murmured, tapping his nose with the tip of her finger, "You. Are. A grumpy. Grump."

Thorin decided that was quite enough insults, so he scooped her in his arms and firmly pressed his lips to hers. She snickered into the kiss.

"So, if this is only the beginning..." he trailed away a few minutes later.

"That is quite up to you, darling," she said, and he felt her teeth tease his helix.

Who knew ears were such a sensitive spot!

"It is an affair that requires two people. And while women could be accommodating as long as they are in the mood," she drew out, "men have to be in a certain state of… preparedness."

"I think I am prepared," Thorin said.

And she laughed and pulled at his shoulders making him once again take the position between her legs.

The second congress lasted longer and had an even more pleasurable result.

Thorin once again grunted, and his arms gave in under him. This time she squeaked, but he suspected her plea for help was of a pretence nature. His body felt heavy and as if liquid. He squeezed his eyes, trying to make his extremities and his spine listen to him - and then he slid to the side. Her face was glowing with some soft warm light; and he once again pulled her in. He wanted her silky body near him. She shifted, and tucked herself into his side.

He felt immediately sleepy. Her hand lay on his chest, and the fingers softly fluttered, as if she was drawing runes on his skin.

And then he remembered and asked, "Will you stay?"

She made a soft snorting noise. "That was the point of this whole evening."

He chuckled. "Good. I'd hate to be the main attraction."

"You weren't. You were the main course," she quipped and then turned and sank her teeth into his shoulder momentarily.

"And are you sated?"

"Not even nearly," she answered and yawned widely. "But I know you, my heart. I'll have a chance to have another substantial meal."

"Oh?" Thorin muttered, and yawned as well.

She nuzzled his shoulder and sighed into his skin contentedly. Thorin smiled and fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning he woke up - and realised he was alone. For a second he even forgot what had transpired the night before, and then he noticed his own bareness. The bed smelled of those flower oils; and when he rolled on his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow, he slid his hand under it, and his fingers bumped into some piece of clothing of hers, lacy and soft.

He rolled on his back and dangled it above himself holding it with two fingers. It was a light green stocking. It was time to get up surely, so he just put it on the other side of the bed and sat up. While he was in the bathchambers, he heard the door to the bedroom open, and he shortly wondered if it was her. When he stepped out, washed and dressed, he saw it had been the maid. His breakfast was now sitting on the small table on the parlour, and the bed had been made.

Thorin felt a pang of disappointment, and a doubt. Was he supposed to eat without her? And hadn't she implied that they would spend the morning together? Even now that he'd gotten out of bed he still craved her company, if only just to share a meal.

He waited for half an hour, pretending to read the papers he'd brought to the parlour the day before; but then his irritation and his hunger had become too much, and he sat at the table to eat.

Soon Brori came, with the usual list of the day's errands; and Thorin's day started. Sometimes he shared his midday meals with the children; and today he decided to visit their halls.

He found the company of his children most pleasant: they were intelligent, respectful, and lively. Her merit as a mother was among many things that he now appreciated about his wife. He could see how well organised their life was, how loved and looked after and cherished his children were. He knew that she visited them daily and spend as many hours in their rooms as she could.

Dain was the most fascinating out of his offspring, Thorin had found. He was the least Dwarven in his temper, pensive, sometimes almost absent-minded. Before, perhaps, Thorin would have disapproved of such character; but having a wife of Men and considering how similar her son was to her made Thorin pay attention and observe before judging. Dain had his talents, and as unorthodox as they were for a Dwarf they were no less valuable. He was an early speaker and reader; and his perceptiveness was bordering to sorcery.

When Thorin came into the chidlren's room and after the first round of greetings and news shouted into his face, mostly by his youngest, Thorin noticed that Dain was staying aside, and that his face was grave.

"What is it, Dain?" Thorin asked.

"It is amad, Father. She visited us earlier, and she seemed distressed," the youngling answered.

"She was sad!" Othin chimed in. "She didn't even want to draw me a pony! I wanted a pony and she always draws me a pony, but she said she didn't feel like drawing, and..."

"Will you talk to her, adad?" Dain interrupted his younger brother. "I know you don't remember how to talk to her, but you should try."

"Dain, I don't think you should tell Father what to do," Thror scolded his red-haired brother. "Forgive him, Father, he seems to be upset by Mother's visit in the morning. He tends to get rather emotional."

Thror's tone clearly signified that he didn't approve of such mawkishness.

"I will talk to her," Thorin promised to Dain. "And now, show me what you did in your yesterday's classes."

* * *

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	24. Hospital Visit

The Erebor infirmary was located in a maze of halls in the West-South side of the Mountain, on the Second Lower Level. Thorin entered through the back doors, and walked through the main passage. In the moons since he woke up he'd only been here five times. Couple times he'd come down for the inspections and as a part of the discussion of the provisions preparation for the Winter. Once, he visited an ill kin. She'd been with him there every time.

And now he stood in the middle of the visitor hall - and he realised he didn't know where to go.

He just couldn't stand this anymore! He'd waited for her to come for the meal; he'd looked for her in the children's halls; he'd worked through the day - and all he could think of was why she would be upset and what he was supposed to do about it! He had been distracted - and it irked him to no end! He was no green youngling, to have his head in the clouds, full of thoughts of his... sweetheart!

He was a man of sober disposition. He thought her reasonable as well. So, faced with this ridiculous conundrum, he was at loss. The fact was that in his circumstances he couldn't help but feel uncertain of himself; and as much as he tried to brush such thought off as preposterous, a suspicion would crawl into his mind. He had done wrong by her. Something in his behaviour the previous night had been erroneous; and she was now avoiding him. But what could it possibly be?! They had fallen asleep together; and she had seemed content. Surely, if he had made a mistake, offended her, or broke some cursed unspoken rule, for Mahal's sake, she should have told him then and there!

He had intended all through the day to ignore the woman's irritating behaviour. She would come to him if she had something to say, he kept telling himself. And then he would start recalling the night before again, searching for that one thing he'd done wrong; and then he'd tell himself to stop - and he would start from the beginning. And then he'd curse under his breath and tell himself to go back to his duties!

And now he was standing in a round hall, passages spanning away from it in all directions. He knew that those led to various wards, where different ailments and matters of parturition were addressed. Healers and apprentices walked by him, greeting him with bows and continuing their way. No one stopped, obviously, to ask the King why he'd be standing in the middle of a hall without moving.

And then he heard her voice. Thorin followed the way where it was coming from, and found her in a narrow passage, in front of a wall of cabinetry. Near her, a long ladder was leaned against the wall; and Thorin saw a young healer on its top, his hands full of jars.

"Is there any cropleek powder left there? Master Grori promised me we still had enough, but I specifically remember it in the order register," she called to the healer.

Balancing the jars, the Dwarf opened another cabinet and stuck his head in.

And then she noticed Thorin, and her slanted eyes widened. "Thorin?"

The healer jerked on the ladder, which wobbled precariously. Thorin grabbed it, stabilising it.

"Good evening," he grumbled. Nothing better came to his mind.

She leaned to him.

"Is everything alright?" she asked in a worried voice. "Are you… ill?"

As if Thorin hadn't felt like a mawkish dimwit before! Now his barging in and seeking her out looked even more laughable! He internally cursed.

"Um… no," he said.

She kept staring at him, until a small cough came from the top of the ladder.

"My lady?"

They both looked up and saw the healer stare back.

"I found the powder jar. It's empty," the Dwarf said in a small voice, and gave out another awkward cough.

"Oh right. Cropleek. Right," she muttered.

"My lord," the healer greeted Thorin, growing even more flustered.

"Evening," Thorin muttered.

"You can… let go of the ladder," she whispered. "He needs to… get down."

Thorin stepped back.

"Please, let Master Grori know. About the cropleek. Um… That there's none left, I mean," she said to the healer.

She had three tall glass jars in her hands as well. Thorin looked at them. One contained some bright red powder. There other two had live leeches in water; and Thorin unconsciously winced back. She spun around, probably looking for a place to put them down; and then she just lowered them on the floor.

"Tal, please, take this to Master Grori, as well. The King and I… have an appointment," she said. She sounded anything but convincing.

"Of course, my lady," the healer answered from his perch.

"Well, shall we?" she addressed Thorin in a forced cheerful tone, and took off, speeding away from him along the passage.

Thorin had no choice but to follow her.

* * *

The passages turned and twisted; and Thorin kept his eyes on her copper main and swooshing fern green skirts. Finally, she made the last turn and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. A bunch of key was tied to a sturdy chain, one end of which was attached to her belt. The keys clanked and jingled; and she unlocked the door.

This was clearly her study. The walls were covered in shelves, with books and jars, labelled and organised in neat rows. There was a large oaken desk, similar to the one he had in his study. One of the walls had a large stove near it; and he could hear fire hum inside. The room was hot. In the opposite wall there was a large window, with colourful stained glass in its lower half, and a clear upper sash. In front of it, a tall metal rack with several tiers housed a multitude of plant pots.

He walked inside; she closed the door behind him, and after a pause she locked it.

She jerked the shawl off her shoulders and threw it aside, onto a large divan by the wall. And she was in front of him, her eyes roaming his face.

"So, what is it? What happened?" Her hand flew up, and she touched his forehead. "Is it your head?"

"My… head?" he repeated.

"Well, I doubt you'd come unless you were in severe pain," she said. "Please, speak. What's wrong?"

She cupped his jaw, peering into his eyes.

"Thorin?"

"I'm not… ill. I just… came to see you."

Under no circumstances he was now intending to confess now that he'd come because he'd thought she had been distraught after their night together!

He looked at her darkly. She seemed worried, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. He once again internally berated his moronic, bathetic, defeatist self! She was just busy with her work, which he should have done by the way! She hadn't been thinking about their night together! He hadn't disappointed or upset her! She was behaving like a mature adult - while he'd let his imagination run wild, and had taken emotional advice from his young child, to make matters worse!

"You just… came to see me," she repeated slowly, and lowered her hand. "In my infirmary?"

"Well, that's where you were," he gritted through his teeth. "I couldn't possibly see you in our bedroom. You weren't there."

She studied his face, frowning now.

"Was I supposed... to be in our bedroom?" she asked confused.

"No, of course not," he quickly tried to mend this catastrophe of the conversation. The last thing he needed was for her to guess by his slip of tongue that that had been the real reason behind him coming. "You're where you should be. I just… came to see you."

He trailed away, and looked aside, hiding his discomfort behind an irked grimace.

"Oh," she said levelly. "Well, would you like to… sit?"

Clearly, she also had no idea what they were supposed to be doing.

"Um, it's alright. I can just… go." He took a step back. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Oh," she said again. "Oh! Mahal help me, I just realised! You haven't seen my note!"

He whipped his head and looked at her.

"Your… note?"

"I left you a note in the bathchamber, on the vanity. By the brushes. I assumed you'd see it when you took the brush." Her face cleared. "I had some distressing news from the infirmary, and I had to leave immediately! We seem to have some supplies missing; and we suspect thievery!"

It was Thorin's turn to give out an 'oh.'

"You didn't see my note!" she repeated. "And you came to see me," she added and then gave him a smile. "Did you… miss me?"

Thorin didn't deem it necessary to answer, and took another step back.

"Well, you're busy, so I—"

He didn't get to finish, because she jumped to him and hugged him tightly around his neck.

"You came to see me because you _missed_ me," she murmured; and he gave her an haughty look.

"I don't see you every day, so it's not that out of the ordinary—"

"Oh, and it has nothing to do with me not being in _our_ bedroom in the morning," she sing-songed.

Curse her attentiveness, he thought.

"Children said you seemed upset when you'd visited them. I came to make sure everything was alright with you," Thorin made another attempt to preserve his dignity.

"Uh-huh. And you didn't miss me at all," she whispered, her lips hovering over his.

"I saw you last night. And it's not as if we used to... spent a lot of time together… before…"

It was increasingly difficult to form sentences, since she was arching into him, pressing more and more into him; and he could see the freckled nose, and the laughing eyes, and the red lips right in front him.

"Admit it," she whispered, and he swallowed with difficulty. "Admit it, Thorin Oakenshield. You woke up, and I wasn't there. And…"

"And I couldn't think straight all day," he rasped out.

She dove in and finally kissed him. He greeted the kiss with a relieved groan.


	25. Up and Down

And then her hands lay on his belt; and he heard the buckle loudly clank.

"What..." he muttered, and felt her teeth graze his throat.

"I locked the door," she whispered into his skin.

Surely, this just wasn't done! Surely, such acts only belonged in a bedroom, with candles put out, and… His thoughts jumbled. His belt fell on the floor; and she was blindly unbuttoning his doublet, while pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to his neck. And to think of it, the previous night the candles had shone brightly - and he could see everything then! The lines of her body, her head dropped back, bearing her throat, the clouded eyes, and how blush spilled along the long neck and between her breasts…

The doublet was shed; and she'd started on his trousers - and he still stood without moving. His head spun, and his mouth had gone dry. His previous convictions and his upbringing rang in his mind, shouting that whatever was going to transpire now - and with each passing second he had less and less doubt what she was aiming for, and that he would have no will to object and to abstain - was lecherous, and unseeming, and… His thoughts jumbled again, because she'd untied the lacing on his breeches.

Her palm felt hot and so very pleasant against his skin - and her fingers confidently wrapped around his straining length. She moved her hand up and down; and he felt her breath flutter on his jaw near his ear.

"Are you scandalised, husband mine? Is that why you aren't moving? Or..."

"Or what?" he asked without understanding anything anymore.

"Or would you like me to teach you again?"

He squeezed his eyes, gathering his thoughts, and then he drew a sharp breath and looked at her. A smug little smile played on her lips; and his temper rose - not in anger, but in some exhilarating rebellion at the challenge. He was no pup, which she'd compared him to! And as much as she gloated and boasted, he knew he affected her - and she wasn't the only one who could play their cards cleverly!

"I think I learnt the basics last night," he murmured, and gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

He pulled her hand out of his breeches and kissed the inside of her wrist. She'd done it to him, and it'd felt most titillating. He then started taking small steps ahead, pushing her backwards, staring into her eyes. When her back met the large cupboard by the wall, he picked up her second hand and lifted them above her head. Her lashes fluttered, in a series of small shocked blinks; and he smirked.

"I'm not scandalised," he whispered. "I was, of course. But you see, my heart, I don't know about _your_ Thorin, I'm still young and spry in my mind, so I can… adapt to new circumstances quickly."

He was improvising, of course, and feeling as uncertain about it as possible; but he wasn't going to let her walk all over him! He had to push back a bit, he thought.

He joined her hands above her head and held both wrists with his left hand. She was such a delicate little thing, with her narrow wrists - and with her small perfect breasts, one of which he cupped, making her arch and moan raspily. For a second he hesitated: he couldn't do much with one hand. On the other hand, in the situation they were in right now, not much undressing and caressing should be done! They could be walked on any moment! There were people just outside that door!

He picked up her skirt and started quickly moving his fingers, bunching up her dress in his grasp. And then she bent and lifted the leg and her knee rubbed to his hip. That was encouraging - and helped quite a lot, since he was able to push his palm up her thigh. He then hooked up his fingers on the waist of her bloomers and jerked them down. Thankfully, there was no girdle on her this time. She stepped from foot onto foot, shaking the bloomers from around her ankles.

He gave it a quick thought - and picked up one of her legs under the knee. She readily wrapped it around him; he opened his breeches - and she arched and pressed her centre to his length. He felt the heat and the soft brush of her curls.

It took a second of maneuvering… and he pushed in. She groaned and sank her teeth into her bottom lip. He still held her arms above her head; and he dove in and pressed his mouth to hers greedily.

He soon had to release her wrists: the more he moved, the hungrier he felt, the more thrust he craved. If he could pick her up - and it couldn't be hard, she was light as a feather - and if both her legs could go around him, he'd have her all to himself; not that she was controlling much of what was happening. Her eyes were half closed; and quiet moans fell from her slightly parted lips.

"Hang on..." he rasped out, and led her right arm around his neck. Her left one limply fell on the other shoulder.

He grabbed her under her buttocks, and hoisted her. A small cry burst out of her; and he swallowed it in a kiss. Mahal help him, he hoped the passage behind that door was empty!

His movements gained more swing; and he growled in pleasure. His hips were snapping into her - and he released with a snarl. The already familiar fireworks bloomed behind his lids; and he leaned into her, probably crushing her.

Her head fell on his shoulder; and she gave out a weak shaky laugh.

"Mahal be merciful," she muttered.

"Aye," he agreed, not sure what he was agreeing with - but feeling very much… agreeable.

He slowly put her down, wincing when his member slid out of her. They both busied themselves with straightening their attires.

She then walked to her desk, poured some gibirhamd into a tall goblet from a crystal pitcher she had on it, and drank greedily. He watched her pale throat move. His mouth suddenly felt painfully dry as well.

She lowered the goblet and looked at him, "Want some?"

"Oh I do," he said.

And then he made a few wide steps, cupped the back of her head roughly, and pulled her to his lips. He hardly noticed the clank of the goblet on the carpet. The sweet drink on her lips and in her breath tasted times more intoxicating than he'd assumed seconds ago. He kissed her greedily; enjoying her lips, her tongue, her soft moan. There was just something so sensual in how she'd been drinking, dishevelled and flushed after their love - and he wanted her again.

She threw her head back and looked him over.

"What's this?" she drew out. "Again?"

He cocked an eyebrow, and hooked his finger on the cut of her dress.

"What's the point of getting dressed again?"

"It's only your doublet that is gone and your trousers that are undone."

"What a waste of time and strength it would be to fiddle with the belt." He tilted his head and let his gaze caress the silky skin on the tops of her breasts. "And you have a convenient divan right there."

"You are insatiable," she said, sounding endlessly pleased. "And the danger of being overheard? Does it not bother you?"

He shrugged and gently pulled at the lace peeking out of her bodice.

"Oh, I see now," she murmured and brushed the tip of her finger down his nose. She then picked his chin with the same finger and tipped his head back, making him meet her eyes. "It's not a danger at all. It's an added excitement. You are being deviant, my lord."

He pulled harder, and the lacing loosened. She smirked and pressed her hands into his chest - and then pushed him back forcefully. She walked to the divan, her hips swaying; and he licked his lips. She turned around slowly, and keeping his gaze, she sat down, her back straight, her posture decorous.

"Come," she said; and he approached her.

He could see her chest rise in deep shuddered breaths,

"Kneel," she said; and he looked at her in surprise.

"Pardon?"

"Kneel." Her tone was authoritative, leaving no room for discussion.

He shook his head in amusement but obeyed. He lowered his body - and he had to agree, the height was perfect. Her eyes were shining. Then, excruciatingly slowly, she opened her knees, pulling at her skirts, baring, first, her calves and then the knees. And then he remembered that she'd left her bloomers by the wall where they'd had the first bout. The hem of the skirt crawled along her thighs… and stopped just an inch away from exposing her centre.

He shifted forward, on his knees. The warmth of his body licked at the exposed triangle of skin on his lower stomach.

"What an excellent arrangement," he murmured and leaned into her.

"You don't remember it but I had the legs of this divan shortened by an inch to fit this 'arrangement' so well," she said with a salacious smile.

Her words felt like being thrown into an icy lake.

While he was enjoying his second coupling ever, she was just revisiting the previous positions and locations. He suddenly thought that she'd probably done it here just as before; and considering he was still the same man, probably exactly in the same way! He clenched his jaw. He wouldn't be surprised if she was currently feeling somewhat bored, he thought venomously. If not disentranced, she surely wasn't feeling as excited and enamoured as he had seconds ago!

"Thorin?"


	26. Hungry

**My darlings, I could really use your support on my Wattpad page (if it's your cup of tea of course). I have a couple webserials there, with modern Wren and Thorin, which are very dear to my heart; and I'm hoping people would read and leave votes and reviews. It really helps to hear people's opinions when I write. Have a look, please, _if_ you please. The link is (mind the spaces) wattpad dot com slash kkolmakov (the name is Katya Kolmakov).**

 **Love you all xx**

 **K.**

 **P.S. Sorry for the delay in the updates. My arthritis was back for a bit, and no typing was happening.**

 **P.P.S. UnaLouise, that was a very cute review! Thank you! Sorry I couldn't update earlier :(**

 **P.P.P.S. Let me know if you'd like to see more smut or more fluff/feels in the next chapter. I feel like it's been a a smutfest in this story recently, so we can switch gears and have some domestic life or more of the kiddies or even some politics and court life. Let me know what tickles your pickle.**

* * *

"Thorin?" she asked again, and he swallowed a knot in his throat.

He needed to snap out of it, he told himself. That was the most preposterous moment for these childish insecurities. He was literally between the legs of a willing, half bare woman!

Nothing helped. His body was rigid - and worst of all, his arousal was ebbing. Outwardly. In the most obvious manner. He leaned in and kissed her, hoping to distract himself and focus on what they were doing at the same time. Neither endeavour was a success. She moved back and cupped his face.

"What is it?" She frowned and sounded concerned. That made matters significantly worse.

"Nothing."

If only she kissed him and they went back to the pleasant pursuits of the seconds ago.

"Thorin?"

"It's nothing," he repeated.

What was he supposed to do now? Rise, button up his trousers, and leave as if nothing happened? He surely wasn't intending to have a _discussion_ with her. Even if he wished to talk of such matters - which he didn't - he would never confess what the reason for his sudden aggravation was.

She cocked her head on one side, and studied his face. The only possible escape route he could think was an actual escape. Decisive and confident retreat was his only salvation.

"We should move to our bedchamber," he said.

By the time they arrived at the bed chamber, he would either salvage some of the mood, or she'd change her mind.

"I thought this position had served you just fine a few seconds ago," she said - and looked down.

He gritted his teeth.

"We should go to our halls, have supper and… and then return to… other matters," he grumbled.

"So you're stopping because you are - what? Hungry?" she asked. It didn't sound like a light jest, and she looked offended now.

"Aye," Thorin answered.

Any lie seemed better than the truth really. Being jealous of his old self wasn't something he was intending to admit. She watched his face for a bit and then slowly closed her knees.

"Alright," she drew out. "Be it your way."

He moved back and jerkily pulled up his breeches and his trousers. She rose as well, marched to the wall, and picked up her bloomers.

"So you know," she said in a low voice, "I don't believe you for a moment. But I know you well, so I don't expect any explanation. You never explain yourself. It is below your majesticness, I assume."

She pulled her undergarment on and straightened her skirts.

"I will join you at the table," she said and turned to her desk. "I still have some matters to finish."

Thorin felt additionally irritated at being dismissed thusly; but he'd put an end to their dalliances himself; so as discontented as he felt he had nothing to say.

"I shall see you in half an hour," he answered and walked out of her study.

* * *

In the bedchamber he quickly changed into a fresh tunic, breeches, and trousers - and left his boots on the floor of the wardrobe. He then called a maid, and asked for supper to be served in the adjoint parlour. He poured himself some juniper water and sat in one of the large armchairs in front of the fireplace. His mood was growing only fouler.

Half an hour passed; and she hadn't come. He poured himself the second drink. He sipped and watched fire dance on the white elm logs.

The door opened, and she walked in slowly. He lifted his eyes and froze with his glass half-lifted to his lips. Her hair was scattered on her shoulders, not a single braid in sight, except for the two traditional plaits on the sides of her face, that he'd never seen her without. He assumed another marital plait still hid in the copper and silver waves; but otherwise her hair was undone. She was also dressed in the most informal attire: a long white tunic, and a heavy dark green robe thrown over it. It was tied so loosely that one good tug at the belt would open it. The tunic underneath appeared rather gauzy.

He forced himself to stop staring at her ankles below the hemline, her tiny feet in soft home slippers. He looked at her face - and saw her lips pressed in a stern line.

"You seem to disapprove of my attire, my lord." Her voice was tense. "I apologise for misinterpreting. I assumed we were to repose after our supper. But alas, it seems I am once again behaving inappropriately. Not quite the Dwarven wife and Queen you had hoped for."

"I don't… disapprove," he said, and poured the drink down his throat.

"No? Why are you looking at me like that then?" she hissed, and then she took a sharp breath in and shook her head. "Pardon me. It's the same old neverending tanglement of tempers. You brood, and never say what it's about. I get irritated and behave unseemly. And then we argue. Or not. Sometimes one of us stops; and we make peace, and then–"

"You look ravishing," he rasped out; and she stopped, her mouth half-open. "Red-hot. Like a firebird."

She inhaled again, audibly, her chest rising.

"And I don't disapprove. I'm stunned," he said and slowly stood up.

"You rejected me in my study," she said in a low voice. "Anyone has the right to change their mind; but you never explain; and I start wondering and–"

"I apologise," he said; and she shook her head again.

"You have nothing to apologise for. We are just too different when it comes to emotional talk."

"We are," he whispered, and stepped to her. He picked up her hand and lifted it to his lips. "You can talk about emotions, and I can't."

"You have gotten better with years," she said. She then blinked, her lashes fluttering anxiously. "I am sorry, I didn't mean–"

"You didn't mean to say that I am once again the incomplete version of your husband?" he asked, and flipped her hand, and kissed the centre of her palm.

"Thorin." It was her turn to whisper. "You aren't a version of my husband. You _are_ my husband. And you're the man I'm in love with. I'm just privileged to know the younger you."

He gave her a small smile, and she returned it.

"Let's eat. You seemed to have been hungry earlier," she said. This time, her words did sound like a harmless teasing. "Gave up what measly pleasures I have to offer for..." She looked at the table over his shoulder. "For kidney and mushroom pie."

She pulled her hand out of his grasp, and stepped to the table. He gently wrapped his hand around her upper arm and turned her to face him.

"I might have made a mistake."

He pulled her in, and she arched her body. Some parts of his anatomy rejoiced at the contact. She was avoiding his kiss, though; and he saw her eyes twinkle with mischief.

"Thorin Oakenshield admitting he'd made a mistake? Never did I think I'd live to witness it."

"Am I forgiven?" he murmured. His gaze lingered on her red lips; and he saw blush slowly colour her cheeks.

"You have nothing to be forgiven for," she answered stubbornly. Her voice was, nonetheless, breathy.

"We both know that it's not true. Just a few minutes ago you painted quite a picture of my flaws," he said and raised an eyebrow. "I brood. I speak not of my feelings. What else was there?"

"I can't think of a single thing," she muttered. "Must be the hunger torturing me. It makes my mind sluggish. The pie smells mouth-watering."

" _You_ are mouth-watering," he said - and picked her up under her arms and plopped her backside on the table.

Perhaps, he'd had quite enough of the idle talk. Perhaps, he'd learnt by now to guess the desire in her eyes. Perhaps, the low cut and lacy collar of the damn tunic clouded his mind.

"Thorin..."

He quite enjoyed her moaning his name like that.

He pushed her knees apart and grabbed the back of her neck. Her head dropped back, and she moaned again.

" _Ulsuzul…_ _Abadbunt…_ _Zardana_..." he muttered, his head spinning, and he pressed a trail of kisses to her neck. He then ran his tongue along the sweet skin. He wanted all of her taste.

"Did you just call me a lynx and a witch?" she mewled, her voice trembling.

"You're driving me mad," he growled.

And then he jerked her belt open and dove in and pressed his half-opened mouth to her sternum, through the soft lace. He could smell the lilac oils, and her legs squeezed his hips, and her warmth and her tightness called to him.

"Mahal, yes," she moaned.

She pressed her hands into his shoulders and pushed away from him. She fell back onto the table, and then he saw her her grab the tunic and jerk it up. Her centre opened to his eyes; and he aligned them; and she welcomed him with a groan.


	27. Yuletide Eve

**My darlings,**

 **HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Whatever you celebrate, have a merry time! I'm sending you all my warmest sweetest wishes! Hope you're spending the time with your loved ones, over food and cheer and song!**

 **And now, regarding _Light Room_ : I've been mulling over this story for quite a while, thinking where to take it, and I think the answer is... nowhere :) I don't think there is much to tell in it, to be honest. I could drag it and write lots more smut, but wouldn't it be boring for all of us? Meanwhile, a reader left me a review not so long ago, with quite an attractive idea for a story. If anything, when I have time to write fanfiction perhaps it should be an exciting story with a plot. Or I can come back to _Four Corners._**

 **As some of you may know, I work in childcare, and the job does keep me quite busy. I still write regularly (mostly the webserials, which you can read for free on Wattpad, and for publishing on Amazon); so I have very little time left for FF - and yet I'd like to continue. Maybe, the fandom has almost died out, I don't mind. As long as there are a few people still reading it, let it be fanfiction! :D**

 **So, I decided to wrap up _Light Room -_ and what would work better than a few holiday cheer filled chapters? We'll see Yuletide in Erebor; presents and feasts; the mini Oakenshields; and of course lots of loving for Thorin and Wren. I'm hoping to show how everyone is doing, and how Thorin's new life ended up. If there is something you want to see in the next few chapters, let me know.**

 **And now Happy Yule!**

 **With lots and lots of love,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

 **xx**

* * *

 _Yuletide Eve_

Thorin heard the door to the bathchamber open, and he smiled without opening his eyes.

"How is your bath, my lord?" his wife's voice purred; and he chuckled.

"Why don't you come in and see for yourself?" he said nonchalantly, and then opened one eye.

She stood in front of him, with a heap of some colourful clothes in her hands. She hummed and her eyes ran his body in the water.

"Well, as tempting as it sounds, I still have a great deal of errands to run. The clothes that we have outgrown are to be packed and given away. The cook has sent for me, the feast menu needs looking into, and—" She stopped and then giggled. "You know, what? All of it can surely wait."

The garments out of her hand softly fell on the floor; and she stepped over them.

"I have married a wise woman," he said with a laugh, watching her quickly undress.

"Twice, for that matter," she answered.

She stepped into the tub, her skin immediately flushing with pink; and he licked his lips watching her lower herself in the scorching water. The delicious round knees, the hips, the soft stomach…

She leaned back against the side of the tub, across from him, and stretched.

"What oils have you used?" she asked, closing her eyes.

"Rosemary and apricot, like you suggested. For my old creaking joints," he jested, and she snorted.

"Those joints didn't seem that old or creaking this morning." Her tone was flirtatious.

He hummed and started slowly sitting up and edging towards her.

"Oh Mahal, will I not be left in peace to enjoy my bath?" She giggled.

"Afraid not," he said decisively, and grabbed her around her tiny waist.

She squealed and then promptly wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Good."

* * *

He was already dressed when she dashed by him, still in her undergarments. Her hair was in disarray.

"I cannot find anything!" she exclaimed, and spun on one spot like a pup chasing its tail. "I am to go to the children's halls to take them to the Grand Hall, and I'm still..." She waved her hands in the air.

"Tantalisingly half bare?" he asked, and she huffed and shook her head.

"Do not start! I have so much to do, and—"

He caught her arm and pulled her to him. She didn't resist, but he could see she didn't share his mood.

"Wren," he drew out, and leaned in, to catch her gaze. "You are allowed to be late for your own feast. The children can wait another half an hour. And your dress is on the floor in the bedchambers. You pushed it there off the bed when you dragged me under the covers."

"Me? You were the one, who—" She paused and laughed. The little crinkle disappeared from between her brows. "Thank you. I seem to have forgotten what this evening is about. Too preoccupied with 'must' and 'should' and 'need.'" She laughed again. "I'm the one who'd been preaching about the spirit of Yuletide in Erebor, and here I was forgetting to just be merry."

"I'm sure Erebor had accepted you as its Queen much faster exactly because of your efforts to start the tradition. After all, it's just another reason to drink and eat copiously," he said with a smirk; and she nodded gleefully.

"It is! It was my second year here, and I told Balin about the tradition of Winter Solstice celebration in Enedwaith, and how the Halflings celebrate a similar holiday; and before you know it, the Dwarves are decorating their halls with evergreens of all sorts and wrap presents in red cloth." She laughed again and pressed into him. "Have you prepared a gift for me, my lord?"

He guffawed.

"I have, but of course you will not receive it before midnight."

She charmingly pouted. He guffawed again. In the last three moons he'd been her husband - or to be precise, in the three moons he remembered being her husband - he had learnt her expressions well. This was a pretense, and she was playing with him. He adored her games.

"Could I have a hint? Patience has never been my virtue." She gave him a fake cajoling smile, batting her lashes, "Please?"

"Nay, my heart. I am not falling for this again. You're too clever. You'll guess it, and I will feel like a fool." He quickly kissed the tip of her nose. "More so, if the gift isn't to your liking."

"Hogwash. You know it'll please me even if it's boring and practical and—" She stopped mid-sentence at the view of the smile dropping on his terrified face.

He let his arms drop along his sides, and her nose started twitching nervously.

"Um, Thorin, I did not… mean that..."

He kept his face frozen in fake trepidation as long as he could, but then he broke down and started rolling with laughter at her concern.

"Mahal help me, your face!" he gasped out between bouts of loud guffaws. "Oh goodness me, you should see your face!" Tears rolled onto his eyes, and he wiped them with the heel of his right hand. "You were so worried to hurt my fragile male self-esteem! Mahal the Smith!"

She smacked his shoulder and joined his frolics.

"Oh c'mon! It could happen!" She snickered. "You could have chosen a pair of wool socks for my arthritis, or something!"

He was out of breath at this stage, even more entertained by her apologetic tone now.

"It is our first Yuletide together!" she continued squeaking defensively. "Maybe you couldn't think of anything!"

"My heart," he murmured and pulled her closer again. She readily arched into him. "It _is_ our first Yuletide, so I did put an effort into the choice of the gift. And I do appreciate that you keep forgetting that you had been married to me for a dozen years before you were married to _me._ "He tenderly kissed her. "So, hopefully, you will be forgiving if this 'young' husbands gift isn't perfect."

She smiled at him and returned the kiss.

"I can't wait til midnight," she whispered between caresses. "Besides the gift I've prepared for you, I also wanted to talk to you about something. Something… good."

"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but she shook her head.

"All after midnight. For now, let me go. I need to get dressed."

He snatched one more greedy kiss and released her.

"I'll go to the children. We'll wait for you there," he said, watching her back disappear in the doors to the bedchamber.

"Alright, alright!" she shouted from there.

He chuckled and picked up his outer doublet from the chair.

* * *

The children's parlour had a large pine tree decorated with sweets and toys, and the room smelled of some aromatic spices.

Othin was running around the room in circles, swaying a wooden sword in his hand. He was so engrossed in his game that he didn't notice Thorin step in.

"And if it's a shield, I won't hang it on the wall! Oh no-o-o! I'll take it to my bed, and then the first thing in the morning, I'm going to the grounds and… smack!" The boy imitated a hit with a shout. "I won't even take a sword! I'll be like adad! No Orc will withstand me! I'm Othin Oakenshield!"

When Thorin came in, Thror had rised from his chair where he'd been reading, and now he gave his Father an apologetic smile.

"Evening, adad. Don't mind Othin. He has eaten too many honeyed apricots the cooks kept giving him. They just can't say 'no' to him." The older boy's tone was stately and disapproving. "Unna is still getting dressed, and Dain..." The boy paused. "I'm not sure where he is, in actuality."

The body of Thorin's youngest smashed into his legs.

"Adad! Adad! Am I getting a shield for Yuletide? Is it a shield?!" The round blue eyes were burning. "I asked for a shield, an oaken one. And I want it to look like a branch! No round nonsense! I need to hit Orcs with it!"

"You will have to wait till you unwrap it, Othin," Thorin said softly, and ruffled the silky dark waves on his son's head.

"But is it—" the boy started again.

"Othin," Thror's tone was strict; and Othin stopped whining and pouted.

Thorin laughed at the similarity in the line of lips and the frowned brow to the expression Othin's Mother had worn just a few minutes ago.

Unna entered the room, in a festive dark red dress. Thorin admired his daughter's royal bearing. She looked so much like his Mother at the moment, except for the piercing blue eyes.

"Evening, adad." The girl sounded excited. "Are we ready to go to the feast?"

"Your Mother is still preparing. And where is Dain?"

The children looked between themselves.

"Odd," Unna said with concern. "He's always the first one to be ready. And Dain loves Yuletide! He's like amad, mad about it."

"I'll go knock at his door," Thorin said, and walked to one of the side entrances.

"But is it a shield?" rang behind him, and Thorin kept chuckling shaking his head.

* * *

"Come in," Dain's voice came from behind the door, and Thorin entered.

The boy was sitting on his bed, his knees pulled to his nose. He was dressed in his formal garments, a dark blue doublet, and his hair was braided. The light of candles danced on the fiery locks. His face was mournful.

"Dain?"

The boy swallowed with difficulty and lifted his eyes at Thorin. That was when Thorin noticed the tear-stricken cheeks.

"What is wrong?"

Thorin quickly approached the bed.

"It's nothing." The boy hastily wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to hide his anguish. "I'm almost ready, adad, I'll come out now."

"Dain, what is wrong?" Thorin asked firmly; and the boy's lips twisted.

"It is not… becoming. That I'm upset and crying. I'm sorry. Princes shouldn't be upset about such things." He sniffled. "I'll becalm now."

The tone, the lowered corners of the boy's lips, the shining green and hazel eyes, of the everchanging, sparkling kind, just like his Mother's - all of it reminded Thorin of his wife; and instead of growing irritated or impatient, as the boy surely expected - and so did Thorin himself, having grown much more aware of his own temper in the last three moons - Thorin felt sympathy for his second son.

Thorin carefully sat on the bed near the boy.

"Maybe it's unbecoming, but you _are_ upset. So tell me what it is, and perhaps I can help you."

Dain studied his face, with the same intent perceptive look as his Mother wore so often.

"It's the children in amad's infirmary," he finally whispered. "There had been seven deaths in the city, as you know, from the influenza. And there are sick children in the infirmary. Three lost their parents; and four more are sick themselves. I've overheard amad speak of them." The boy blinked several times, probably chasing away tears. "She'd brought them sweets and toys, and letters from their parents. But I just keep thinking how horrible it would be if it were Othin or Unna or Thror who were there, and you couldn't come visit us. And amad said two of them are still in danger."

Dain took a deep shattered breath.

"I just suddenly remembered that there are diseases, and death, and… and some children don't have parents, and now— How can we be merry if something like this happens?" the boy exclaimed with anguish.

Thorin shifted uncomfortably under the boy's feverish gaze. He should've called his wife, he thought. It wouldn't have been so much easier to let her talk to the boy - or, even easier it would have been to think and to act like his Father and his Grandfather would have: to tell the boy that princes indeed didn't cry, nor did any males among the Khazad except in front of the funeral pyres of those who died honourably; and that such 'unfounded' thoughts of loss and disease were nothing but a waste of time.

"I don't… know what to tell you, Dain. I wish I could make you merrier, because you are my child and I don't want to see your tears," Thorin said slowly. "But you are right. And there are death and illness and loss in this life. I don't know how to deal with sadness, which you are feeling. All I know is how to _act_. This is all I know. You should talk to your Mother about what you _feel_. When I face a calamity I get angry," Thorin smiled joylessly, and Dain's narrow hand lay on his forearm. "And then I do everything in my power to mend it."

"This _is_ a feeling, being angry," Dain answered pensively. "And acting is better than sitting in one's room crying." The long fingers of the second prince squeezed his Father's forearm. "Thank you, Father."

The boy gave Thorin a smile.

"I will ask amad if I can help in some way with the infirmary," he said, and nodded to his thoughts. "And if there is something I can do for the families in the city. And thank you again. You have mended my Yuletide."

He then lunged ahead and tightly wrapped his arms around Thorin's neck. The copper waves tickled Thorin's burning face.

"I am the luckiest boy, adad," Dain whispered. "We all are, to have you."

Perhaps, Khazad males didn't just cry in front of the funeral pyres of the honourable falled. Perhaps, smiling to one's wonderful son though the tears on a happy Yuletide evening was quite alright, thought Thorin Oakenshield, embracing his boy.


	28. The Happy End

**Author's Note:**

 **I'M BACK! No, I swear, I am :D After a long crisis and a proper decluttering a la Marie Kondo style (both in my house and my creative process) I've arrived at the understanding that I still want to write Thorin fanfiction! My other pursuits (novels on Amazon, fanart, acrylic painting etc) will need a serious rebranding, but I'm definitely continuing my FF endeavours! I know that the fandom has shrunk, and that I might have lost plenty of readers by being away for so long; but as Marie Kondo says, "Keep only what brings you joy!" And Thorin does! :D**

 **So, if you're still in the mood for kkolmakov style Thorin, stay tuned for my new story _Lies That Wear the Crown._**

 **Here's the last chapter of _Light Room_. I think it's a sufficiently sweet ending for this story. (Watch out for those nasty cavities ;) )**

 **Also I have a QUESTION to you, my dear readers: in the new story would you like to see Wren as the female protagonist, or are we in the mood for someone completely new?**

 **Thank you for reading! I hope to see you in the next story!**

 **Love**

 **K. K.**

 **xx**

* * *

The Grand Hall of Erebor rung, sang, and sparked. Fire roared in the giant fireplace. Voices echoed, laughter bounced between torch lit walls. Twelve large tables, almost creaking under the weight of delicacies and drinks, were occupied by celebrating Dwarves. Half of the Hall was left empty for dancing, which would start soon, after another dozen of barrels of mead were opened and consumed.

The aroma of roasted meat, spices, honey, and evergreens decorating the walls floated in the warm air. Thorin glanced to his right, at the flushed rosy cheeks of his wife, who was amicably chatting with Gloin. The blush powdered her marble skin, along the graceful neck and down into the low cut of her dark red velvet dress. Thorin licked his lips shortly revelling in the anticipating thought of the night ahead of them, when they would return to their chambers; but then Bofur called his name and Thorin turned to the Dwarf. A toast was raised for the 'old times,' and Thorin joined the cheer.

In the past moon Thorin seemed to have been regaining some of his memories, mostly to do with the Quest for Erebor. First, they came in the shape of nightmares, when he'd wake up screaming and thrashing. The fire of the Dragon, and the Battle of the Five Armies would flash before his eyes. But every time his wife would be near him in the bed, and she consoled, and comforted; and soon he stopped hiding the tears on his cheeks and the sweat on his brow. He'd press his face into her, and her long fingers gently ran his hair; and sleep would overcome him. And then the bad dreams were gone, and the flashes would come in his awake state. They were some small, seemingly unimportant details from the Quest, or from his youth: a taste of some dish, a smell, something his sister-sons had done as bairns. These brought no pain, no terror. The memories seemed faded, like old tapestries. They were more entertaining than anything. They hardly bothered him but neither did he crave any. Life was good.

He was absorbed in a conversation with a few older Dwarves when someone touched his shoulder.

"Will you dance, adad?" Unna asked, and Thorin smiled at his daughter.

"Wouldn't Gunni prefer your first dance?" he whispered conspiratorially, and the girl schooled her face into a confused expression.

"Why would he?"

Thorin raised one eyebrow and then glanced behind him, at Bofur's son who couldn't tear his eyes off the girl. The boy first shrank under Thorin's gaze; but some sort of good humour came over Thorin, and he gave the youngling a wink. Gunni jumped to his feet and started marching across the Hall towards Thorin and Unna.

"I'm afraid, _batith,_ you might have no choice but to dance with the lad. That is unless you want to hurt his pride with a refusal. The choice is of course yours, as always," Thorin said; and Unna whipped her head.

Gunni gave her a bow and stretched his hand in an invitation. He opened his mouth, closed it, and awkwardly cleared his throat. Unna as much as rolled her eyes, but rose and allowed the boy to lead her to join the dancers.

"Matchmaking, are we?" his wife's soft whisper came into his ear; and he chuckled.

He slowly turned and met her eyes. Her face was very close; he hadn't heard her approach, given the noise in the Hall had been growing over the hours of the festivities. She stood, leaning to him, her arms behind her back - and he moved swiftly and caught her mouth in a quick but firm kiss. Her red lips tasted of wine, and joy bubbled in his blood. Lust was there too, and love, and some sort of mischief.

"I just wanted this dance to be yours," he said; and she giggled.

"Well, lead on then, my lord."

She wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand; and he grabbed it, and pulled her to where other couples spun, and stomped, and clapped.

Dancing with his wife was a pleasure he hadn't known he would even consider - and yet after the first time, at a small feast a few moons ago, he had been looking forward to every chance to hold her supple body in his arms, to measure his step to hers, to pick her up and swirl her around. She knew all the traditional dances and moved with assurance and grace. A radiant smile bloomed on her face, and he cherished the open joy he could see in her features.

They were dancing another of the _farnul dehar,_ when a courtier entered the Hall and loudly announced that midnight was approaching. The dancers stopped and went to fill up their goblets.

The day of Winter Solstice was over; and as the sweet and intoxicating liquit ran down Thorin's throat he closed his eyes and thanked Mahal the Maker for the gift and the blessing his life was, full and peaceful.

After that some went back to eating and talking, and some pushed the goblets onto the tables and rushed back to the dancing floor, while the musicians hastily wiped their beards and picked up their instruments.

"Should we go back to the table?" Wren asked.

Thorin wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in.

"I have a much better idea," he murmured and pecked her lips.

"Oh I know what it is!" she said and giggled. "Are we going to be opening presents?"

"Aye. We're going to _unwrap_ our presents and _savour_ them," he whispered to her ear pointedly; and she laughed throatily.

"You seem confident I'll like your _taste…_ in gifts," she whispered back, and it was his turn to guffaw.

"There is only one way to find out," he said and started marching out of the Hall pulling her after him.

* * *

"Hm, I don't even need any presents now," she said, and he rolled on his side to look into her face.

She lay on the floor, her eyes closed, a small smile on her lips.

"Do you now?" he asked with a laugh and kissed her bare shoulder.

"Uh-huh," she said. "I only have one wish. I'd like to go under the covers. My bottom is cold on the floor."

"Well, we can't have that," he said. "Not the _bottom_! It is one of the treasures of Erebor!"

She snorted and opened her eyes. He grinned at her.

"But the bed is so far," she drew out.

Indeed they lay, on a heap of their clothes, right near the door, which he had hurriedly closed and locked behind them when they had stumbled into the bed chamber.

Thorin gave it a thought, picked her up under her arms, making her squeak, and put her on top of him.

"Oh that's perfect!" she announced gleefully. "You're like a furnace! And a fur sheet as well!" She placed a small bite onto his chest.

Thorin laughed and wrapped his arms around her small frame. They lay in silence for a few moments. Normally, their carnal pleasures would exhaust him and made him sleepy, but this time desire still coursed his blood, for a few more bouts; and mead made him inventive; and whatever she said, he wanted to exchange gifts.

She shifted on him, wiggling the said bottom in the air; and he wondered if she was titillating him, when he realised that she was rummaging through the dress he'd torn off her when they'd come to the room and which now was crumpled under him.

"Ah, here it is," she said and sat up on him. His eyes fell on her breasts. "Thorin!" she called for him with a chuckle.

He tore his gaze off the mouth-watering peaks and saw a small velvet pouch in her hand.

"Blessed Winter Solstice!" she announced and handed him the gift.

Thorin sat up, settling her on his lap, her legs on his two sides - and opened the pouch.

A mithril band, a simple rune ring lay on his palm. Thorin turned it and followed the inscription on it with his eyes. _Gagin ra jalaimhili. '_ Again and always' it said, and Thorin lifted his eyes at his wife.

"I'll always choose you," she said. "Even if I have to choose again and again. Every time. Every day, if I have to."

Thorin quickly pushed the ring on his finger, cupped the back of her head, and pulled her into a deep ardent kiss. No words came, his heart full, and his eyes misted - but no words were needed.

* * *

"Wren?" he called; and she gave out a sleepy hum.

"Don't you want to see your gift?" he asked; and she hummed again, probably without hearing him, and nuzzled his shoulder.

"Could we talk… tomorrow?" she muttered, and he kissed her temple and pulled the covers over her.

This time they had made it to the bed.

Thorin closed his eyes and then laughed. He had spent three days in the negotiations with the preposterous Elvenking, bargaining in gold and diamonds, to obtain the gift for his wife - one small sapling of the famed rowan tree of Mirkwood. Eventually, after the deal had been struck, Thorin had to travel to Mirkwood, under some pretence, and then to transport the package with the cursed twig to Erebor. The plant had to be hidden; and Thorin had to acquire a few accomplices among the healers in the infirmary to look after the green nuisance and to make sure the Queen hadn't accidentally discovered it. He had grovelled and flattered, paid generously, fretted, and worried - and the woman was peacefully sleeping in his arms, seemingly satisfied by simple carnal pleasures and not at all interested in his gifts.

Thorin moved his fingers feeling the new ring. Perhaps, he should find something else to add to the ridiculous twig, he wondered. He was no expert in romance and sentiment; but his eyes prickled at the thought of the message behind her simple gift - and he craved to match the value of it. Everything in the Mountain was hers as it was his, though. What could he possibly offer her?

"Do you wish you had your memories back?"

Her quiet voice made him as much as jump up on the bed.

"I thought you slept," he said.

"You're thinking too loudly." She yawned and stretched. "And I remembered that I wanted to talk to you. So, do you?"

"Not much," he said.

"But if you could repeat some experiences, would you?"

"Perhaps," he answered uncertainly. "What are you about, _ghivashel_?"

They lay on their sides now, facing each other. She smiled at him tenderly and started stroking his face with the tips of her fingers. He loved these caresses of hers.

"It would be pleasant to remember how we regained Erebor. And the death of Azog would make a good memory too," he mused; and she suddenly snorted.

"But of course. What was I thinking? It's battles and fallen foes you'd like to remember." She scrunched her nose and snickered.

"What would _you_ hate to forget?" he asked confused; and she laughed harder.

"The battles and fallen foes as well, I assume," she answered. "I have never lost my memory, so I can't say. But what I was leading to - so clumsily - was… babies."

"Babies?" His eyebrows jumped up. "But we have our 'babies.' They aren't babies anymore, though."

"No, they aren't," she said pointedly; and he felt even more confused. "But the next one would be."

"What next one—" he started, and then choked on his words. "Are you—?!"

"No, no, I'm not," she rushed. "But… well, I could be. I'm still capable, and healthy, and—"

Thorin didn't let her finish.

"Aye! Aye, Wren! Could we—?" Hope and excitement bloomed in his chest, and his breathing hitched.

She laughed and cupped his face.

"That was what I wanted to talk about. _You_ have never been an expecting father, and never held your babe in your arms. And them I started thinking, we could... try. It's not certain of course, but—"

She was once again interrupted. He scooped her in his arms and was kissing her.

"It won't happen tonight!" she laughed and started wiggling in his arms. "I have to stop taking my herbs, and there have to be the right days, and—"

"No matter! It will just be a bit of practice!" he said and rolled over her.

She gleefully agreed and wrapped her legs around his waist.

* * *

The practice paid off; and sixteen moons later Thorin held in his arms his newborn second daughter Hildur, daughter of Thorin.

And all was well in Erebor - and in the mind and the heart of its King.

 **THE END**


End file.
